High School Never Ends
by Iris Cornelia Jade
Summary: When the anonymous pranksters known as the Pictoes pull pranks on eight separate people at Hetare High that supposedly ruins their reputations and lives, the eight turn into two teams, the Axis and the Allies, who prank the school, the Pictoes, and each other. After all, what's the worst that can happen? Well, overload of UST for one. As well as maybe a bit too much insanity.
1. Prologue

There are some people who believe that their lives start when high school ends. In the case of the people at Hetare High School, they were in fact brought up to believe that their lives would begin when high school ended. They were brought up to believe that they would be essentially fulfilling another portion of world history—as soon as they got out of Hetare High.

Not that Hetare High wasn't special in its own way, of course. A boarding school, all expenses paid, for the one-hundred-ninety-six sons and daughters of valuable members of the various countries. One representative per country was chosen at their birth, and had their future planned out from the start. Homeschooled training all the way up to Hetare High, four years of specialized training at the boarding school, and then Hetare High would disband for another thirty years while the students who graduated would then become the representatives of their countries to the World Meetings. World Meetings that took place once a month, a more advanced version of the old United Nations—one representative per country, all with the same simultaneous four years of training, talking about the countries they were involved in and taking care of the world.

At least, that was the plan.

Two hundred years after Hetare High was formed, the world was shocked with the appearance of the immortal extraterrestrial ambassador Tony. The foul-mouthed alien soon became a regular staple of both World Meetings and Hetare High. Some years after Tony's appearance, a group of mysterious pranksters hit the high school. The elusive Pictos formed and plagued the school as anonymous master pranksters for one year—and two year—and three years—

And the fourth year, senior year, the Pictos struck gold.

Actually, let's backtrack—the Pictos didn't strike gold. They struck the prides (very, _very_ stubborn prides) of eight of Hetare High's star students. Eight separate pranks, constructed at complete random by eight different members of the Pictos, hit eight different people. These eight different people from eight very, very different backgrounds formed eight very, very different tastes for revenge.

But all of them, eventually, wanted to strike back.

The Pictos were powerful beyond belief, good at what they were doing, professional pranksters who had been perfecting their techniques for all of three years—and possibly more. They were impossible to be taken down by the eight separate methods of eight simple individuals.

Working together, however, is a different story.

This is the story of how eight very, very different individuals formed two very, very different groups with one identical purpose. This is the story of how those two very, very different groups clashed with each other _and_ the Pictos—and, eventually, how these three very, very different circumstances created one very, very happy ending.

This is the story of how Hetare High School—at least in the hearts of eight people—became a beginning instead of an end.

* * *

_America_

There was something very wrong with the hamburger.

It wasn't speculation; Alfred F. Jones had spent almost all of his fifteen years of life eating every burger he could get his hands on. The burger in his hands wasn't right. He could _tell_.

"My sixth sense is going like crazy," he muttered to Tony, the alien having been his friend for his entire three years at Hetare High. The burger sat out of its cellophane packet, oozing grease into the plate, tempting but untouched. The alien simply stared, chewing on a deep fried chicken sandwich. Alfred did a double take.

"Wha—Tony, dude, what the hell?!" Poking at his friend's wrapper to turn it around, he scoffed incredulously at the red print on the aluminum. "You never, ever eat chicken sandwich when there's still hamburgers available. That's not even _my_ rule. That's a rule of life. You're breaking the bro code here!"

"Fuck off." The usual word flying from his friend's mouth calmed Alfred down—marginally. "I'm hungry," the gray extraterrestrial grudgingly elaborated. "I'm going to get another burger later."

"Whatever, dude. You're missing out…"

He didn't even manage to convince _himself_ that the burger wasn't scaring him a little.

But a burger was a burger, right? So Alfred promptly placed a monstrous bite into his mouth.

And spit it out.

"The _fuck?!_"

Tony flashed him a quizzical look—admittedly the swear was an interjection that flew from his mouth daily, so much so that there was a high chance he didn't even know what it meant—but Alfred simply tore open his milk carton, trying in vain to reach it. Ripping it wide, he poured the carton directly into his mouth before slamming it onto the tray and gasping for air.

"This is…I know what this is…"

He was not the only one. A variety of people, mostly from countries with American tastes, were also spitting out mouthfuls of hamburger and cheeseburger. Tony's eye tilted upward skeptically. "Something wrong?"

"Dude, this tastes—it's so salty I can't even eat it, and this is coming from the guy who regularly dumps extra sodium into every meal. French fries especially." Lifting the bun slowly, Alfred scowled at the black sauce inside before dipping a finger into it and hesitantly lifting it to his mouth.

His face paled instantly, finger dropping from his mouth. Tony shot him a quizzical look yet again, blinking at his paling shade of fear.

"D—dude…"

Marmite.

He, Alfred F. Jones, was afraid of only two hundred-thirty-eight things in the world.

And one of those things was Marmite.

Like kryptonite to Superman. Every hero had a serious weakness, and Alfred's was Marmite.

Not just any Marmite. There were two types of Marmite—and this was British Marmite. Alfred had a natural inclination against English food, and the powerful, salty paste that even turned some of the Britons away from it was essential murder on his taste buds.

"Tony, look—it's _Marmite…_"

"Limey bastard," the alien cursed as an instinct, red eyes narrowing. "Fucking, fucking, fucking limey bastard—"

Alfred looked up before noting with a groan that all eyes were on him and his friend. There was a small pause…and then Feliks led the entire lunchroom in an embarrassing bout of laughter complete with finger pointing. No, not even. They weren't laughing; it wasn't the right word for the things they did. They cackled and hacked and choked on their own spit. They fell off chairs and squirted apple juice from their noses at the sight of the self-proclaimed 'American Hero' cowering from Marmite.

Said boy paused, glowering at everyone as he stained an obscene red. He turned his glare to the burger, paste still smeared thickly across the surface. Then, shakily, he reached out and flipped over the wrapper to see the pasty white splotch artfully splattered on the bottom.

_Someone_ was going to pay.

* * *

_England_

Two weeks ago, England had met his first unicorn.

Not that England hadn't met mythical creatures before—in fact, Arthur Kirkland had seen and befriended a variety of mythical creatures since his birth, and had begun learning the limited magic humans could manage since he started at Hetare High. His friends were valuable. And since his only friends (the only people who were willing to be friends with the stuffy student council president) were his fairies and Flying Mint Bunny, they automatically became his first priority.

Which is why, when they didn't show up for a full twenty-four hours, he started getting worried.

"France,—YES, I'll call you France, we're still in the middle of a student council meeting—can you please stuff a sock in it and get the forms signed on my desk by the end of the school day? No, Yao, we can't pass restraining orders here; yes, I realize Yong Soo's your cousin but—I know technical incest is illegal in some countries, but there's nothing I can do anymore!" Striding angrily past them out of the makeshift conference room with the bang of wood on wood, the rather large-eyebrowed student stormed straight into the room across the hall before rapping his fingers on the closest desk in the room. The cluster of council members huddled around some electronic device dispersed almost automatically, most of them sniggering and glancing at him as they passed. A girl clad in usual school uniform with red bows in her chocolate-brown pigtails turned from directly in front of the device. The plaid pattern on the uniform was dyed in varying shades of blue, her favorite color, as was quickly becoming fashionable among girls (and somehow managed to skirt the strict dress code—he really should look into that). The girl placed her hands on her hips and scowled, though her eyebrows raised in a skeptical manner.

"Michelle. I need a cup of tea, if you _don't_ mind." Adding a healthy dose of sarcasm, he glared inquisitively as she smirked. "What is it?"

Turning quickly toward the table, the girl from the small island of Seychelles picked up something. For a second, Arthur thought it was a cup of his long-awaited tea—instead, the long-suffering secretary plopped the iPad right in front of his face.

"What's the meaning of thi—"

"_Oh, Uni, stop! You know I'm ticklish there!"_

As Arthur Kirkland watched his filmed self being chased across the screen by the invisible unicorn, the sudden absence of his friends became clear—they were trying to spare him from this. From embarrassment.

It was a prank. A damn good one, in fact. Played against the highest figure of authority that wasn't a teacher, condemning him to a lifetime of scorn, camera perfectly placed at the perfect moment for the perfect slice of hell.

As student council president, it was his duty to stomp out pranksters in the dust. And maybe he'd crush their dreams just a bit. Because it was his job, of course, not personal retribution.

It took Arthur exactly ten seconds to explode out the door and to the record room, searching for the Picto's extensive file of offenses.

Naturally, the next day, Michelle's video of Arthur's face flickering through emotion after emotion was played during the morning announcements.

* * *

_France_

France prided himself on being a sex god.

He'd managed to get a majority of the world in his bed—figuratively, of course, but also by name, which he was proud of—and after 'extensive research' had concluded that the only reason it was so was because he had the body of a Greek god, the charm of a gentleman, and the skills of an experienced prostitute. And, seeing as he actually had had quite a lot of experience, he couldn't say it was quite off the mark—although he could think of one large-browed man who didn't quite agree…

He needed to get England bedded soon. Then maybe he'd stop insulting him.

Anyway—being a sex god, of course, France also liked to pride himself on the fact that he had a rather large…for lack of better word, lower region. After all, there was plenty to love, and to be a sex god, one must be able to deliver maximum pleasure!

On a side note, Francis Bonnefoy is available tonight at 10:00 PM. If you want to have a night of 'frantic passion and beautiful l'amour,' don't hesitate to call him (and get some poor helpless victim off his hands).

Which is why, of course, when the whispering started, he was surprised to find that most of the gossiper's fingers seemed to be directed at his lower region.

"Is something wrong?" Catching up to his friend Antonio as he exited his cooking class, Francis shot him a raised eyebrow as his Spanish friend laughed. "People seem to be laughing at me a lot today."

Antonio opened his mouth with a rather sly grin, but before he could speak, a large hand slapped his back. Francis didn't need to turn around to know it was the last of their little trio—Gilbert Beilschmidt, the older brother of Ludwig Beilschmidt. Gilbert _had_ been the representative for Germany; however, he had raised such a ruckus that in the end, he'd been kicked off the position and his younger brother Ludwig had inherited the role. Nevertheless, he stuck around, continuing to attend the school purely because he'd already spent his first year there, claiming he was representing 'Prussia.'

"Francis!" Pushing his head downward, he laughed. "I mean, dude, I knew you were nowhere near as awesome as my five meters—but seriously, centimeters? You gotta get it up!"

"What is going on?" Snapping for the first time in a while—frowns gave people wrinkles—Francis sighed. "For your information, I am perfectly—"

Antonio pressed a copy of the school newspaper into his hands before turning to see the Vargas twins strolling down the hall and promptly chasing after them with a cry of "FELI! LOOOOOOOOVIIII!"

"And there goes 'Tonio," the Prussian said, cradling his bird as Francis's face became buried in the magazine. As the silence drew on, Gilbert glanced over in mild confusion—his friend usually had at least _something_ to say. "France? Francis? Frenchy?" Tugging on his belt—usually, when Gilbert did it, Francis freaked out as a reflex from a long-forgotten pantsing prank—Gilbert sighed. "Francey-Pants?"

Francis didn't answer. Face still hidden by the paper, his entire body visibly trembled. His hands were white. His knuckles were red.

Gilbert really, _really_ needed a camera.

There was a sizeable pause, a moment of perfect silence teetering on the edge of explosion. It was the perfect breaking point—

And then Arthur Kirkland ran up to Francis, shoved his own copy of the newspaper into his face, and laughed derisively as he sped off to whatever class he had next.

If there was one thing that got on Francis's nerves, it was the student body president of Hetare High. Arthur Kirkland, aside from being the pretty much only person that Francis hadn't been able to coerce into his room, was also the Frenchman's rival since the tender age of six. And the fact that the boy was now no doubt laughing with his (imaginary) friends over an article in the school newspaper detailing the small size of his penis made him want to throw someone into the pits of hell and back.

And show them just how big he really was there, too, but that's not the point.

Within seconds, Gilbert was standing alone in the hall with a newspaper, both of his friends absent, while Francis bolted down the halls glancing at the single torn-out page and scowling at the name of the author.

The Pictos were going to _pay_.

* * *

_China_

China was resourceful. China was strong, witty, and China didn't give up. China, like any other country, had its ups and downs—but the reason China was still around when greater empires before it had crumbled to dust years ago was because China ultimately did what it had to to stay alive.

And goddammit, China did _not_ 'mass-produce' things. For Pete's sake, the only reason their country had to open so many factories in the first place was because some certain lazy-ass Americans that he could point out by name just couldn't bring themselves to get up from in front of whatever videogame console they were in front of and do some actual productive work.

So Yao as a human enjoyed what China as a country did best—making things.

A thing about Yao Wang was that he was predominantly left-brained; his grades were virtually perfect, he was the Student Council's treasurer, and he didn't have many creative sparks in his body.

So Yao made things other people had already made. Perfect replicas. And while he may not have come up with those ideas himself, it still takes skill to create so many copies that imitate to the last crossed T. He just didn't have the imagination to come up with those great thoughts—but putting those thoughts into action? That's what makes a real invention worthwhile, after all—releasing it to the world. And that's what Yao had always been best at.

That and, truth be told, the faces of those people whose ideas he used—damn it all if it wasn't great to see a gaping jaw when he made enough of whatever-it-was-this-time to hand out to the entire student body in less than twenty-four hours.

Oh, and it gets money fast. For a real life example, search up how much money America owes China.

And as much as other students hated him for what he did, none of them could say it was a bad idea that wasn't benefiting him. No one could say that it was against any rule.

Which is why, when he entered his dorm one dark Wednesday morning, he was very surprised by what he saw.

Copyright notices. Thousands and thousands of copyright notices were papering his room, littering the floor, one taped to the wok on the stove. Some were official-looking print outs from well-known companies, while some were simply signed, handwritten notices claiming ownership from various other students at the academy. Either way, Yao had no doubt in his mind that the culprit, whoever it had been, had been quite thorough. Every single product he'd ever recreated was labeled and accounted for in his room—and every single one had become an accusation.

Yao hated being objectified—he hated being seen as simply a machine, continuously making the same things. Some people saw it as plagiarism. He saw it as moving forward. The next step, after innovation.

A step that would _not_ be overlooked. And especially not by some stupid 'Pictos.'

* * *

_Russia_

Ivan Braginski was very, very proud that he'd gone off the deep end.

The son of a rather prominent mob boss, he'd been diagnosed with an unidentified mental disease at age ten when he watched his father die (rather bloodily) right in front of his face. It wasn't something her particularly liked to talk about, but he had a certain fear for harm coming to his neck (hence the scarf he always wore) and he clutched his metal pipe like a lifeline day in and day out (since the school wouldn't let him bring a gun). But other than that, he was at least able to coexist with society—albeit rather shakily.

He'd learned to be very proud of his 'disease,' because it helped him survive.

People avoided him. Teachers were scared of him. No one dared to lay down the law to him; he got away with anything. No rules, no limitations. That was really how he liked it—although it occasionally got a bit boring.

Which is why, when he walked into class an hour late and was promptly ordered out again, he was rather worried.

No one ever told him what to do. No one ever had anything for him to do, period. He was the 'elephant in the room,' the school's ever-present looming shadow. Most generally pretended he didn't exist.

Nevertheless, he was directed to the infirmary anyway.

There was a nurse there—the small, shy French girl named Jeanne was bustling around busily. She gave a shaky smile to Ivan before pointing toward a room farther down the hall. "Ah, Mr. Braginski…they're down there."

"Who?" Speaking sweetly, he turned his head, attempting to crank up his freaky purple aura as he spoke. "Who is important enough to me to—"

He stopped. Lying on five separate beds were his sisters, Katyusha and Natalya, and his 'servants'—Toris, Eduard, and Raivis.

None of them were necessarily 'sick' in any way—but all of them had sunflowers painted on their skin in finger paint. Their faces were masses of yellow, brown, and green. They looked like tangled undergrowth. They looked like tree people who had been sleeping in a sunflower field for a thousand years.

To anyone else, the entire affair would have been a simple joke, a harmless prank. The message was clear to Ivan, however—_you can act as strong as you wish, but you have weaknesses._

Weaknesses like his family. Like his friends. Like sunflowers.

"They were knocked out by a simple anesthetic," sighed Jeanne, tiptoeing into the door behind him. "It doesn't have any sort of effect. It just makes them sleep for a couple of hours." She shrugged. "It's a prank. Those pranksters, you know. Been around for a long time. The—the—what's the word?" She shook her hand lazily. "White splotches. Anonymous."

"Pictos," Ivan breathed, eyes widening.

Ivan Braginski didn't have weaknesses. Not real ones.

He just needed to convince the rest of the world of that.

Turning to Jeanne, he twitched slightly as he heard the sound of Eduard stirring. "Where did you find the people?"

* * *

_Italy_

Italy loved pasta day.

No, really, were you surprised? Feliciano Vargas and Lovino Vargas represented the two different halves of Italy, Feliciano the northern and Lovino the southern. Both embodied what was apparently the 'essence' of Italy—artful taste, a special love of siestas, and food. Lots and lots of good quality food.

And Italy's favorite food was pasta.

To be exact, _Northern_ Italy's favorite food was pasta. _Southern_ Italy's favorite food was a combination of tomatoes, pizza, and a bit of 'that tomato bastard's blood' on the side (although wouldn't that make him a vampire?)—or so he claimed.

Naturally, on the second Friday of every month, the cafeteria would bear witness to the pasta-lover's obsession—generally in the form of a cloud of dust covering every other person in the cafeteria as smallest boy in the cafeteria (minus Peter Kirkland and his group of friends) kicked up everything in his path to get to the food. Italy tended to show rare bursts of energy when in a five-mile presence of any pasta product whatsoever. (Which is probably why the teachers of Hetare High started letting him cart around pots of the thing to school, come to think of it…)

So, naturally, when on the second Friday of the month Italy walked (ran) into the cafeteria to find that there _wasn't_ pasta, he sat on the floor and cried.

To be fair, Italy was a very sensitive being—he cried at pretty much everything. He cried when he saw one of Heracles's cats in a tree. He cried when he got paper cuts. He cried when there wasn't enough cloth to create a white flag. He cried when newspapers had misprints. And once he'd cried because England had glared at him.

Of course, normally he didn't cling on to the nearest person—which happened to be a very startled Ludwig Beilschmidt—and bury his face into his shoulder.

"L—Ludwig!" The Italian sobbed to a very startled German. "The—The cafeteria doesn't have pasta!"

Italy refused to be comforted, crying and crying. Because that was the true spirit of Italy. And the true spirit of Italy is always made apparent by the absence of pasta.

So while Italy continued crying and generally causing a number of people to cover their ears, the German tried in vain to shut him up before finally sitting down on the floor, looking Feli square in the eye, and sighing before promising they'd give the pasta retribution.

And the true spirit of Italy was determination, right? So the Pictos—those evil pasta-haters—were going to face the wrath of Italy!

(And Ludwig Beilschmidt. Actually, he'd probably do most of the fighting, but that's not the point.)

* * *

_Germany_

There was a video camera in the cafeteria. The next day, photographs of the Italian and the German hugging on the floor of the cafeteria were posted around the school.

* * *

_Japan_

As much as Kiku Honda hated to admit it, a large portion of his personality stemmed directly from the person who he had once considered an older brother—Yao Wang. As children, their fathers had dragged them to many an important country meeting together. They'd been almost brothers, inseparable, until _the incident. _Or rather, _the incidents._ The stabbing with the katana that had been hanging on the wall had, admittedly, started on both parts (they'd really just wanted to try sword fighting). The other incident had been his entire fault alone.

And he owned up to that. That was one of the many traits he'd gotten from his Chinese ex-friend—brutal honesty.

The similarities didn't end there. While he prided himself on being a unique person, he had admittedly hero-worshipped the older boy (see the honesty right there?) for most of his life and had subsequently inherited drive, determination, and the ability to make things, although he unlike Yao came up with his own ideas.

Another thing he'd inherited was a great sense of personal honor.

Yao, his father, and his own country's morals had all taught him one thing over the course of his life—that what people think of you, even if you don't let it affect you, should be something you care about regardless. Kiku as a firm believer of isolationism had polished his outward personality perfectly—quiet, calculating, not too cruel but by no means too kind.

Which is why, when Elizaveta Héderváry called him in public, he knew something was up.

Elizaveta and he had a very, _very_ odd friendship, to say the least. They'd met when Kiku was exactly twelve years old. It was around that time that he'd stumbled into his first magazine shop, accidentally scrolled into the yaoi section, and found a Hungarian girl with a flower in her hair squealing slightly as she read a doujinshi.

Elizaveta had introduced him, on that day, to his new obsession.

From then on, Kiku and Elizaveta had spent much of their free time together (mostly in the Otaku club; I mean, _come on, _Japan was practically given honorary membership while Elizaveta had certainly seen her share of animes) discretely reading yaoi or matchmaking among their (male dominated) peers. Kiku sometimes wondered if Elizaveta was one of the only true friends he ever had; he'd never had the courage to tell anyone else about his interest (obsession) in yaoi, and that made Elizaveta debatably the only person who knew everything there was to know about him.

Speaking of which, Kiku knew that sexual orientation was a rather touchy subject, especially for someone as reserved as himself in regards to things that bordered pornography. So, he couldn't let anyone know.

Not that that meant he couldn't talk to Elizaveta; he still _did_ talk to Elizaveta during lunch, when he wasn't sitting with the rest of the people from Asia. It's just that Elizaveta didn't usually use her phone to physically call him; text, maybe, but not call. The last sixteen times she'd called him, it had been only to rant about a particularly exciting new development in one of their OTPs at school. Or a once-in-a-lifetime anime event.

In Kiku's lifetime, Elizaveta had only ever called him seventeen times. And the first time had been because she'd clicked the wrong contact and yelled at him for half an hour before he'd managed to explain that no, he wasn't Gilbert, he was the Japanese kid she'd first met a month ago and please stop screaming or he won't be able to repair his eardrums before the cosplay convention tomorrow.

Did I mention that Elizaveta had flown halfway across the world the following day in a Pokémon costume? (Yes, they'd taken that as a suitable anime to dress up for. What innocent…ish…thoughts had gone through their head back then? Although Elizaveta had still shipped Ash with Gary—yeah, we'll stop here.)

Anyway. Back to Elizaveta's feared eighteenth call.

"Elizaveta-chan," he'd snapped, hissing angrily as the teacher glared at him. While mobile interruptions in class were a practically scheduled on a regular basis, it was usually in text form, seeing as most people wouldn't be tactless enough to get their friends in trouble. That, and it was _Kiku, _the most serious person in the class. As far as he knew, most of the people in his class didn't even know he owned a cellphone.

"KIKU-SAN!" The scream from the phone was so loud, Kiku forcefully ripped the speaker from his ear, wincing slightly. The half of the class nearest to him laughed, and one derisive boy sniggered. "Talking to your girlfriend, Kiku?"

"Quiet, Gilbert," Kiku sighed, pressing the phone back into her ear. He hissed into it sideways, guarding his mouth so people wouldn't hear while the teacher looked on disapprovingly with a glare that read 'detention and public humiliation for the rest of your godforsaken life.' "What is it, Elizaveta?! If it's about the doujin, I thought they guaranteed it was scheduled for a month, not a week—"

"Kiku, listen to me!" Her voice was rapt. "Forget about yaoi for a second!"

Elizaveta telling him to forget about yaoi?! What was the world coming to?! Kiku's eyes narrowed angrily, standing up and moving to the isolated oval room despite his teacher's wild gesturing and his classmate's hysterical laughing. The glass doors closed firmly, cutting him off, as Kiku used his free hand to cover the unused ear with his finger while he pressed his phone firmly to his other ear. "What is it, Elizaveta?"

"Kiku." He could hear the scowl through her voice. "Forget about talking to me. I need you, as soon as you hang up, to go to the school's webpage."

There was a click, and the call was over. Frowning, he pulled away the smartphone's dial tone—newest Japanese model—and quickly hooked up to the school's WiFi (not that he needed it, but the 4G was a bit slower) before typing in the URL as quickly as possible and raising an eyebrow at the front page.

His name was on the article.

The mobile version of the website didn't have any of the pictures that the actual newspaper had, but Kiku's eyes widened alarmingly at the headline before he pressed, with conviction, upon the 'regular site' button in the navigation bar atop the screen. There was a two-minute pause when it reloaded, a time window for Kiku to hope that it had been a complete lie.

No such look. 'Future Valedictorian's Obsession with Gay Pornography.'

And there, in great big headline form, like a propaganda banner, was a picture of Kiku and Elizaveta crowded around an R-18 doujinshi magazine.

Kiku's ears were ringing like crazy, heart pounding, so many years of dedication going down the drain in a swirl of intense humiliation.

And then the phone case snapped under his iron fist as the phone shut down, Kiku's opaque eyes growing two shades darker than normal.

His honor was important to him, dammit. And he was never, _ever_ going to watch it disappear so easily.

The Pictos were going to meet his katana very, _very_ soon.

* * *

**in case this isn't clear: this is a human high school au, at an international boarding school with one representative from each country (the nations humanized, obviously). the high school is exclusively for people who will spend thirty years of their life working as representatives to 'world meetings' which is essentially a more efficient form of the modern united nations. think of it as world meetings in hetalia, with the countries as humans. anyway. the representatives are all different ages, but they all go through the same years of training, so the school only goes for four years, before it disbands for thirty more years during which last session's students act as the world meeting representatives. so pretty much the pattern is four-year-high school then thirty-year-world meeting then four-year-high school again with different people. so even if, say, peter and arthur are different ages, both of them are in their fourth year of hetare high in this story. if anyone's confused, pm me.**

**so next chapter, the axis and allies form-yes, they're also pranksters. and yes, there's gonna be a three-way prankwar. i like those things too much.**

**yes, there will be pairings. usuk, francisxjeanned'arc, franada, rochu, gerita, giripan, dennor, pruhun, spamano, polliet, sufin...i think that's how it's going to end. i just tried to put in all the minor pairings, so of course some of the listed above will appear on the side at the end. and for drama, of course, conflicting ones will be presented. but the ones above is ultimately how it's going to end. and yes both francisxjeanned'arc and franada will be canon. long story.**

**i don't have high hopes for this story. the last time(s) i've posted for the hetalia fandom, i haven't gotten many reviews...(try none except for the friends i begged to read it)**

**but yeah. here goes this multichapter anyway.**

**i don't know when to tell you to expect updates.**

**and yes the pictoes include actual characters you'll see later**


	2. Axis, Allies, and Annoying Americans

"DON'T FUCK WITH ME, YOU STUPID BRITISH LIMEY!" Wincing inwardly—he was spending _way_ too much time with Tony—Alfred F. Jones slammed the wooden door behind him as he stepped into the record room on the heels of Arthur Kirkland.

Said Brit had disappeared between two sets of shelves, pulling out random files with a series of irritated jerks before his head stuck out between two metallic cabinets, hair messier than usual. "Look, Alfred, I've told you a million times that I'm as much a victim as you are. We've both been stricken by pranks, so can you please just drop it?"

"Yeah, but most people don't carry around jars of Marmite!" Growling as he recalled the salty taste coating his tongue, the American grabbed one of the files on the shelves and swiped at the other boy with it, for emphasis if nothing else. "It's made in Britain and you know it—who else would have it but you?"

"Maybe countries with British tastes—STOP LAUGHING, GIT—"

"Arthur, wake up and smell the burnt scones." Straightening himself—the derisive laugh had also been mostly for emphasis—Alfred glared at him. "No one has British tastes except for you. Which means no one has Marmite except for you. Which _means_ that no one could have played that prank. EXCEPT. FOR. YOU." Slamming his hand onto a nearby counter, he growled. "So will you at least tell me _why?!_"

"How astute of you to reach that conclusion." The voice was muffled, the student council president's face covered by papers. "How long did it take? How many people did you ask for help?!"

"Shut up!" Alfred stained red as he remembered Tony helping him to the conclusion. "_British _Marmite. Even a kindergartner could have figured it out."

"Well, as sad as it is, despite the skills of a kindergartner being adequate," Arthur replied, retreating with a file in hand, "it seems you've _still_ managed to reach the wrong conclusion." Opening the file and flicking one of the paperclips keeping it together absently, he turned to the door. "I didn't do it, so—"

"Arthur."

The quiet tone made the boy look up, shutting the folder with a snap. A photograph that had been held to the file by the paperclip had fallen to the floor, and the American boy had picked it up and was now staring at it with a kind of reverence that Arthur rarely saw.

"Where did they get this picture?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Arthur reverted back to his companion's formal title. "America, these are school records, it's hardly my business to say—"

"_Where._"

"Off a variety of different sources—all of them were pranks of some sort—we just assumed they were done by one group—America, why is this relevant?"

"Arthur, did your prank…involve these people too?"

Arthur paused before snatching the photograph of the undefined white splotch out of Alfred's hands, stuffing it back into the folder and turning away.

"It's…none of your business, git. Just don't talk about it, and it won't change anything for any of us."

The door closed—but this time, Alfred's eyes were narrowed in determination instead of anger.

* * *

"Ah, _mon cher_!" Spreading his arms wide as if inviting his frienemy into the room, Francis leaned backward, tumbling into his bed. Arthur stayed in the doorway, arms crossed and unamused. A manila folder was tucked firmly under his armpit, and his foot was tapping angrily on the doormat.

Seeing as there were so few students at Hetare High to begin with, every student had their own separate room in one large dorm building. Unfortunately, that meant that Francis was at perfect liberty to paper his room with lewd drawings of virtually every single person at school—including one he'd somehow managed to snap of Arthur in the locker room (so that was what the flash had been that day). Arthur cringed. There had to be a school rule broken somewhere…or a federal law, for that matter…

"So, I never expected you to come to me," he smirked. "I thought you were insistent on being…what? 'Playing hard to get,' I believe, is how you say it." He raised one eyebrow in a lewd fashion. "But I am not _opposed _to the idea of—"

"Shut up, Frog." Unceremoniously showing the label of the folder to the Frenchman, the Englishman smirked. "Besides, I don't think, even if I _was_ the average desperate wannabe you manage to bed every day, I'd want to go for something that small."

Francis's scowl instantly deepened as he caught the formal typewriter font on the folder—'Pictos'—and looked up into Arthur's smug face.

"Point made, _sourcils. _What do you want?"

"Simple." Arthur scowled, turning to the side and crossing his arms, as if embarrassed to look at him. "You saw the morning announcements…that one time…"

Francis's eyebrow went up, down, and then straightened as he relaxed onto his plentiful cushions and laughed. "Ah, you mean the riveting conversation with your friends? Arthur, most of us stopped seeing fairies when we were five—"

"They did this to me!" Francis's voice died, his eyes becoming startled, as Arthur turned in a sudden motion, glaring angrily as his cheeks reddened and he dropped the folder to the ground. "They gave the iPod to Michelle, and she put it on the announcements! I know they did! The case was white! Splotchy white! Their distinguishing color was white!" He took a deep, shaky breath as a smattering of papers exploded from the force of impact on the ground. "It was them. I need them to pay."

"And?"

Leaning forward, Francis smirked, obviously waiting for something…

Something that came in the form of a grumbled confession. Francis cupped his ear, grinning wider and leaning forward even more.

"What was that, Arthur? I don't think I heard you."

"…And I can't do it alone, Frog! I need your help. Happy?"

"Immensely," he replied, leaning back again and folding his hands on his stomach. "But tell me, why do you need my help? I remember you in your early teens—"

"That's neither here nor there!" Growling, the stuffy student council president rubbed his ear, remembering the large array of piercings that had once adorned it. "The point is that I can't break the rules without a guilty conscience _now_. Plus, I can't take off such a large organization on my own. And that's where you come in."

"But of course, _Angleterre,_" the cloaked boy smirked, pretending to inspect his fingernails. "But what is in it for me?"

Arthur simply smirked again, picking up the folder on the floor and showing the title of it once again to his nemesis. "Revenge, of course."

"…Three things." Francis's eyebrows were furrowed, as if he were making a difficult moral decision. "First of all, you must promise me that you will not rat me out."

"I want them outed as much as you do," he growled in reply.

"Second, we need more help than this."

"Come _on,_ Frog." This time, the Brit objected, sighing and throwing his hands up in exasperation. "As much as I hate to admit it, you're the person I know best at this school—with the exception of Kiku, and he hasn't been pranked to my knowledge and probably wouldn't want to conspire with us anyway. I _really_ don't fancy having to socialize with anyone else."

"No one at all? Yao?"

"Hates me since…well, you said you know my early teens!" Flushing again at the memory of his rule-breaking years as a punk, Arthur scowled. "I got him addicted to opium, remember?"

"Ah, of course. Feliciano?"

"One surrender monkey is enough, thank you."

"I'll let that slide." There was a pause. "Ludwig? Ivan?"

"Do _you_ want to talk to them?"

"Alfred? Matthew?"

"There's no way that bloody American will contribute anything I can't already manage. And who the bloody hell is 'Matthew?'"

"…Suit yourself. If I recruit some people, will you at least consider letting them help?"

"…Fine, Frog. And third?"

"Well." The Frenchman pulled out a rather curvy, disturbing body pillow from under his bed, using it to cover his entire body in protection. "The third thing I'd like is for you to come over here, take off your shirt, and—"

He barely managed to dodge the barrage of papers that caught him full-on in the stomach.

* * *

Ivan had barely opened his dorm room door when a veritable tornado of papers from the room across the hall had caught him full-on in the face. For a second, instincts overtook him and he panicked—then he pulled one off and stared at it curiously.

"A…copyright notice?"

"_Aiyah!_"

The paper was abruptly snatched out of his hand by a rather embarrassed Chinese boy, who stuffed it unceremoniously into a tattered brown canvas bag. He glared at Ivan rather angrily afterwards.

"What?!"

"Ah…nothing." He smiled. "But you have been violating these notices?"

"I'm not selling it on any market but this school, and only one-hundred-something people get to see it anyway!" He snapped angrily. "I hardly think that means bankruptcy for any of these people!"

"True," Ivan mused thoughtfully at the boy he barely knew anything about. Snatching a paper out of midair as more blew from the room, he glanced at it. "But I hardly think you should be stealing products from…Sanrio?"

"My Shinatty-chan doll is much improved from the original Hello Kitty," the foreign boy muttered, tossing his ponytail behind his head and turning to leave. Ivan was about to release the paper when something caught his eye at the bottom of the page—a stamped word. A trademark not of the company written on the paper.

_Pictos. _In bold cursive.

Without looking up, Ivan held out a hand.

"ждать. Wait."

* * *

"So we're going to _kill_ those evil blackmailers!"

"_Si!_" Saluting happily from the desk on the front row in the center of the room, Italy tilted his head. He and Germany were the only ones in the class, and Germany was currently pounding on the board with his open palm. On it were drawn a couple of smudged chalk figures. "We can bury them in pasta!"

"_No, _Italy!" Sighing in exasperation and stabbing his finger particularly viciously into the largest picture (a sketch of a large camera with a smaller picture of two stick figures hugging, one with a curl on his head), Germany growled. "We are going to take them down, in a more tactical way!"

"But why, Germany?" Italy bounced excitedly in his chair. "I don't mind hugging you, Ludwig! I thought this was for pasta!"

"No, Italy! That's also for the sake of my own pride and dignity!" Cheeks reddening angrily, Germany turned back to the board.

"What? No pas—"

"Pasta too, okay?! Just—just try and work with me here, Feliciano!" Slapping the board once again, Germany crumbled. "We need a plan of attack! Do you have any idea who could have done this?"

"Ve, my brother got pranked once! He reported it to Mr. Kirkland, and he said something about Pictos."

"Great! We have a name and a defining feature!" His hand moved to a white splotch drawn on the board in chalk—the watermark on Ludwig's pictures and the stains on the cafeteria counters. "Now, is there anything el—"

Abruptly, the German froze. Standing in the doorway of the classroom was quiet, reserved Kiku Honda.

For a while both introverts stared at each other, neither daring to break the careful silence. Ludwig blinked, and Kiku stumbled over to his desk and grabbed a left over psychology binder (apparently a vital lesson for World Meetings).

Sadly, they were not the only ones in the room.

Feliciano stood, arms wide open, ready to hug Kiku with a smile plastered on his face, before abruptly launching himself onto the Japanese boy. Almost falling over, Kiku gave a rather helpless look to Ludwig, who within two large strides had walked over and hoisted the Italian into the air by the collar.

"Ah…_gomen_, but are you talking about…the Pictos?"

Within seconds, Ludwig realized that the potential valedictorian of the school, one of the most law-abiding students in Hetare High's admittedly insane atmosphere, wouldn't hesitate to turn them in. "It's not really about—"

"Hehe—yeah! We're avenging the pasta!"

Feliciano. Of course.

"O—Oh?" Raising an eyebrow, Kiku blinked. "How are you…um, avenging the pasta?"

"Ve—Ludwig says we're taking them down, with tactics!"

"_Feliciano!_"

"But Ludwig, that's what you said!"

"Ludwig-san," the black-haired boy cut in angrily. "Believe me, I have no intention of throwing you to the metaphorical dogs." He scowled. Though his accent was slightly off, his A++ in the English section of World Languages was shining through. "In fact…I was wondering if I could help?"

"But…but why?" As far as Ludwig knew, Kiku's reputation was the most important thing to him. Why would he risk giving it up?

Kiku opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, Feliciano spoke up—"Also, if you join us, won't you have less time for your gay porn?"

"And that," Kiku scowled, "is why."

* * *

"God_ damn_ it, the _asshat—_"

He really needed to stop spending time with Tony.

From the other side of the wall in the North American wing of dorms, Maria Carriedo of Mexico banged a fist on the wall. "SHUT UP, AMERICA!" There was the muffled sound of Spanish cursing. "Not all of us have the time to listen to you rant about whatever it is this time!"

Other countries sounded similar forms of assent from up and down the hall of twenty-three rooms, including the room on the other side of Alfred's own—his twin brother, Matthew Williams. His 'outburst' was a bit more quiet, however, and rather unusual to Alfred.

"Alfred, please be quiet—I'm trying to talk to Francis."

Within seconds, Alfred had projected himself from his own room to the room on his right, barging in without welcome and throwing open his brother's door.

"MATTIE, I'LL PROTECT YOU FROM THE RAPE MONSTER—"

Matthew turned with an irritated glare on his face, covering the mouthpiece on his cellphone angrily. "Alfred, do you _mind?!_"

Alfred did a small double take. His twin was usually never mad. The only plausible explanation was that something had angered him before Alfred had even gotten there.

Turning back to his cellular device, Matthew began pacing angrily while speaking in an annoyed manner into the device, confirming Alfred's suspicions. "Look, Francis, I get that you want my help, but I don't condone what I find to be needless rule-breaking and quite frankly these 'Pictos' have never done anything to me, so—"

Frankly, Alfred didn't quite realize how he managed to leap across the room, grab Matthew's phone out of his hands, and end up landing comfortably on the couch in one fluid motion—nevertheless, he managed, collapsing with a wordless cry that forced the air from his lungs.

"Pictos, Francis? _Pictos?!_"

"Oh, _merde, _it's that fat American twin of yours again…What do you want, _l'Amerique?!_"

"I want in on destroying these things!"

"The…the Pictos?" There was a small leap in the Frenchman's voice. "Look, Alfred, this is not a game for bored young boys to play—"

"Wait." Speaking out after following the conversation on speaker, Matthew turned his gaze upward, moving his finger back and forth with a squinted eye as if connecting two imaginary puzzle pieces. "This has something to do with the hamburger thing, doesn't it?"

"The hamburger?" A tinny voice over the speaker—Francis—turned inquisitive and rather sly. "Why, is this the thing with _Angleterre_'s food—"

"Can I join or not?" Scowling, Alfred tossed the phone to his brother, no longer excited to hear what the Frenchman had to say. His twin barely caught it by the wrong end, shooting him a glare as he turned away while Alfred continued speaking. "And if he makes—A—a perverted comment, or—B—a wisecrack about the hamburgers, I will steal his entire collection of stalker scrapbooks and—"

Matthew looked up, turning with narrowed eyes and a vindictive smile. Inclining his head, he shot his brother a deadpan glare. "He said no."

"What?!"

"Maybe I should quote…" He paused, listening to his French friend speak again before turning toward his brother with a smirk. "_Non, il est tres agaçant. Je ne sais pas ce qui se passe, mais l'angleterre serait très en colère._"

A variety of different curse words flew from Alfred's mouth as the robotic sound of a dial tone permeated the room. Brother looked between brother, infuriated glare to satisfied smirk, before a loud bang abruptly brought both out of their silent staring match.

Ricardo Cruz slapped his palm to the wall from the dorm to the Canadian's other side, a frown clear in his voice as he screamed. "NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU AMERICANS CURSE!"

"I'M CANADIAN!"

* * *

As Allied Nations in both World Wars, Ivan had a dorm conveniently located beside his so called 'Allies,' located directly in between the Europe and Asia wings (the Russian landmass spanning two continents had caused some problems, as had other countries such as Turkey, Kazakhstan, and Egypt; nevertheless, they had somehow managed). However, since most of the country was located in Asia and China was also considered a part of the Allies, it was unspoken tradition that the Russian dorm room was shifted toward the Asian wing, and the four old Allied dorms would be located next to each other while the Americans and Canadians were also located in adjoining rooms in the North American wing. That meant that his placement in the thin hallway between Europe and Asia located France's dorm on his right, England's two dorms down, and China's across.

Fortunately, there were times when this was the only reason Belarus didn't come to attack him. Fortunately, there were times when this was the only reason England didn't report him.

Unfortunately, there were times when he had to deal with…

"AIYAH! Will those two _ever_ stop arguing?!"

The door to Ivan's dorm abruptly sprung open, and Ivan looked up to see a harried looking Yao Wang. Hair out of his ponytail and panda clinging to the back of his neck, his eyes were narrowed as he strode with an air of authority into the room. Sitting on the floor beside where Ivan was polishing his pipe, he ignored the way Ivan stiffened and instead reached into the wicker basket on his back that usually held his panda to unceremoniously dumped a pile of papers at the Russian's feet.

"Two things." Carefully setting aside his pipe before turning, he turned. "Firstly, what are these papers? Secondly, _why are you in my room?_"

"Ignoring your attempt to freak me out," he replied with a glare, "these papers are information on the Pictos. And, to answer the second question, I thought we could start plotting against them like we were planning to." Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes before looking up and staring Ivan square in the face. "_Now._"

"What? Why now?" Picking up his pipe, Ivan rubbed the end of it with the hem of his scarf.

"B—Because—" Huffing, he jabbed a finger among his papers. "Look, are we going to start or no—"

For the second time that day, Ivan's door burst open. "YAO!"

Ivan turned with a quizzical and significantly more annoyed glare, causing Arthur Kirkland to backtrack a few steps from his position in the doorway. "Ah, England. What is it?"

Meanwhile, Yao had decided that it was a good idea to leap into Ivan's bed, hiding motionlessly under the covers and muttering in Chinese under his breath. After Arthur steeled himself, he entered the room, carefully avoiding Ivan's gaze, and pulled back the covers to expose Yao. Automatically, the Chinese boy sat up in disgust and picked up by thumb and forefinger a single crudely hand-knit doll from the top of the mattress.

"Is this a _voodoo _doll?"

"_What?!_" Arthur moved beside him, picking up another one. "Hey, it's that American—and there's me—is there one of everyone? Do these actually work? They'd be great for Magic Club—HEY, WAIT." Tossing the doll of Alfred to the floor, the student council president turned angrily to Yao, who was still inspecting the dolls. "Give those back!"

"The making of these things were so crude—ACH!" Jumping back when the big-browed boy slapped the doll of Francis onto the bed right in front of him, Yao staggered a few feet back. "Give what back?! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"You bloody well know what I'm talking about—I was arguing with Francis and you snatched those papers clean off my desk and fled! And they weren't the papers for the school trip that you were apparently 'looking for,'" And here the boy made air quotes. "So I need those back right now! Honestly, as the treasurer of the student council, you should know better than grabbing whatever you want—"

"You're one to talk—I don't know, but those folders look like they came from the records room to me!"

"Shut up!" Cheeks staining pink—by now everyone in school knew what that stood for—Arthur continued ranting, pacing the room angrily and talking with his hands (and eyebrows). "I don't know why you wanted that folder, but you'd better give it back! I needed to put that back in the records room because it got mixed up with my supplies the other day, so it's rash of you to jump to conclusions and assume—"

Around this point, Yao begin frantically motioning at Ivan to shove the papers under his desk so the president could no longer see them. Ivan picked them up and obligingly turned around; however, the word at the top caught his eye.

_Pictos._

For the third time that day, Ivan's door flew open. Lunging upward, the Russian grabbed the awaiting Frenchman by the blue silk collar, hoisting him into the air with a smile and a shake.

"I don't like it when my important business is interrupted by unimportant whining children, _da?_"

"Ach—_Russie, un Russie!_" Squawking slightly, Francis waved a hand frantically until Russia finally found his arm lowering involuntarily. Turning around, he saw England raising an eyebrow, a well-crafted doll of Russia in his hand with a bent elbow.

"I did not make a doll of myself," the slightly psychotic boy said with a rather confused look. "And those do not actually work. I just find the experience of ripping them apart very enjoyable.

"I made this one in Magic Club in case you ever threatened me," the English boy replied, lowering his left pinky finger so he could safely return the doll to his pocket. "Made with all my embroidery skill, my friend. Now, _give me back my files!_"

"They're mine now!" Yao screamed back, now off the bed and digging at the dust at the bottom of the cabinet. "You were planning to return those to the records room, anyway, you got them by accident—I _need_ those, do you have any idea how the Pictos have wronged me—"

Abrupt stop. Four individuals sat quietly together, blinking breathlessly. Finally, France spoke. "You too?"

Russia had the sudden terrifying feeling that the four of them were going to start working together.

* * *

"So the first meeting of the Allies will be called to order!"

"I _knew_ this was a bad idea," grumbled Yao angrily, crossing his arms and folding one leg over the other.

"Why does England get to lead the meeting?" Francis used one hand to flip his hair over his shoulder. In a very sassy-gossip-girl manner.

"Because I represent the nation that was once a world superpower," Arthur responded flippantly, cradling the at this point numerously beaten, dusty folder in his arms. "So, we need a quick plan of action."

"I have a very simple plan. Attack." Russia tapped his metal pipe on the desk and hummed in rhythm; a crack appeared in the side of the table.

England had somehow managed to get hold of the large meeting room that was an exact replica of the meeting room for official World Meetings (the location of that one was in the Bermuda Triangle, though), so all four people were currently enjoying the seemingly unlimitless powers of the student council president by lounging in the comfortable chairs and searching busily for the country placards.

"We can't just place ourselves in such reckless positions, Ivan," Arthur replied crossly. "We need something carefully strategized at a good position—something to capture the attention of the Pictos and show them we mean business."

"I don't…really understand what's going on," sighed Yao tentatively. "Are we trying to figure out who the Pictos are so as to attack them back?"

"Not quite what I was going for," England smirked. "Y'see, the Pictos have tainted our honor and reputation. So I was thinking we do the exact same thing back."

"How?"

"Think about it. I'm known for being student council president—my reputation is ruined because they destroyed my respectable image and replaced it with a juvenile one. That one," and here he jerked his head at Francis. "Used to be known as the most sexually active figure alive; now no one will touch him with a ten foot long pole because everyone thinks he has the smallest boner known to man—"

"'Thinks?' I'm flattered that you don't take it as _fact_, Arthur…"

"I'm part of that pool, Frog, don't get your hopes up," he responded, quickly fending the smiling Frenchman off with a well-aimed jab to the ribs from his meter stick. "Anyway. Yao is known for making and selling his high quality wares at dirt cheap; now everyone's wondering if he steals company secrets for a living. Ivan used to be known as the most threatening person at school. And now people laugh because he's—"

"Afraid of sunflowers, yes, what is the point of all this?" The Russian growled, pausing in his humming, the tapping pattern breaking abruptly as one particularly harsh bang chipped off an entire section of the table.

"The Pictos have taken what we're known for and proud of and destroyed that image. The Pictos are known for being the best at pranking. They're proud of it. They've been uncontested for four years." There was a pause—Arthur had always had a flair for the dramatic. "So how do we take that image and turn it around?"

"We beat them at their own game," Francis breathed, leaning forward. "I get it now."

"It's a good plan," the Chinese boy muttered slowly and grudgingly. "It saves the hassle of having to figure out who they are."

"I like it." Ivan's violet eyes crinkled. "Do we get to crush them later?"

"_Geez! _What the—_good god_, that hurt—_Christ, are all the tables so low?!_"

Simultaneously, four people shared a wide-eyed stare before ducking their heads under the table to catch the sight of a wincing, crouching Alfred F. Jones.

"_America?!_"

"What—oh." The boy chuckled, hand frozen on the bump atop his head. "Hey, England…yeah, this wasn't supposed to happen. There was supposed to be this big heroic entrance—"

"ALFRED!"

There was a thunk and the thwap of wood on wood as all five people abruptly raised their heads ('_Damn it!'_) to see Matthew Williams standing in the doorway with an angry, fiery expression on his face that abruptly died out as soon as he spied the others in the room.

"Yeah, like that!" The American crawled out from under the table. "Something awesome like that—"

"_There you are!_"

The Canadian lost his shy demeanor again, lunging forward and grabbing his twin by the hand. "I told you that eavesdropping in the room wasn't the best idea! How did you know they were gonna be here, anyway?! Do you have any idea how long it took for me to find you guys?!"

"I knew that Arthur would go for the most over the top thing he could find. I mean, have you seen how melodramatic he acts?"

"_Why you—_"

"Ah! Mathieu!" Successfully wedging his way between the sparking gazes of America and England, Francis smiled at the startled Canadian boy. "You have come to reconsider joining us, huh?"

"No, Francis. I've told you already, I'm not joining you." He sighed, letting his head droop. "I just came to see if I could make Alfred avoid coming, but since he's already here I guess there's no point."

"Wait!" China held out a hand as Matthew turned toward the door. "Are you going to turn us in?!"

"I already know what's going on, so I guess I won't say anything," he sighed. "Be careful, though…and I guess, if you really, _really_ need anything, I can try to help."

"Dude, thanks, bro!" Alfred grinned as the door shut behind the more forgotten twin.

Francis froze at the voice, turning around with a sadistic smile. "And now, to resolve another issue…"

"Oh, come on!" While a scared expression took over his face for half a second, Alfred crossed his arms with a pout as England quickly turned and grabbed onto his arm—as if that would stop him from going anywhere. "What's the harm that could come from letting me join you guys?"

"You're kidding, right?" Francis scoffed. His glare intensified as his smirk morphed into a frown. "One hamburger on the side of the field of vision and our plan falls to little tiny pieces. We're expelled. And it's all your fault."

"Like Gilbert. We become trouble makers." England gave a small shudder, grip on America's arm tightening. "If I'm thrown out, Peter becomes next in line to be ambassador to England, since he lived in London a bit before moving to Sealand in preparation to become their ambassador. If Peter takes my place…I swear to God I'll never live it down."

"I promise I can pay attention when I need to! You've seen me in biology!" Here Alfred turned to Yao. "Dude, you know how good I am in that course. I stay after class sometimes, even—and that's the class right before lunch!"

"That is true," said Yao slowly, giving the American a once-over with a critical eye. "When you put your mind to it…"

"He does enjoy trying to beat me," sighed the Russian begrudgingly as he cut in. "He can be resourceful when he puts his mind to it…supposedly." He cast a sideways glance at the American, who had now cast his gaze toward Ivan. "Stupid capitalist pig…"

"…If he has _Mathieu's_ support, for the time being he has mine." France sighed. "I suppose one more opinion could not hurt…and it's like the complete Allies of World War II now…"

England stood firm, shaking his head. His grip tightened with each passing person's approval, as if more determined to keep a lock on the boy, and Alfred winced at the pressure on his arm. "Come on, America of all people? Sure he has his strong points, but this is _Alfred. _Do you really think he can help us win this prank war?"

"Why not? I'm sure some of his prowess will come in handy. And you cannot deny that easy access to the chemistry lab won't help us in the long run, if we do indeed intend to support this for the rest of this year…"

There was a pause. England's face flickered once again—it had been doing that more often lately—and his arm tightened, loosened, and tightened again.

"I…I…"

Finally, his arm slackened, entire body slumping in defeat as he turned to glare angrily at the American (who was now shooting his most pitiful puppy dog eyes at him). "You _swear_ you won't be distracted by a hamburger?"

"Yes! I promise!"

"And you won't tell that alien that stalks you everything that goes on in these meetings?"

"I swear, okay?! I guarantee it!"

"You'll keep your mouth shut and let us talk sometimes? No overly insane 'heroic' ideas?"

"…Fine, nothing overly insane, but the hero's still gotta have _some_ input _sometime!_"

There was one, final long pause where England clung furiously to the American's arm, practically wrenching it backwards. Then, with one final sigh, he turned away. Right when America turned away, blinking bemusedly, Arthur whipped back around, grabbing Alfred's arm in the exact same place he had before. The American let out a yelp of surprise, waiting for another insult from the English boy.

"I—It's only for the chemicals! Do you understand?! The chemicals!"

"Yeah, yeah." America's face relaxed into a wide grin as he launched himself away from England with a grin. "So, am I in or am I in?"

"Sad as it is…you're in," England sighed, the rest of the Allies all nodding affirmative in turn.

With a loud whoop, America launched himself into the chair of the American representative, spinning a couple of times before reaching an abrupt stop by sticking out his feet and propping them onto the table. "I've got some awesome ideas on how to get rid of these guys! They need to be taken down a notch, I'm telling you—you won't regret this, I promise!"

England's eyebrow raised, eyes dragging and stopping momentarily over America's heightened cowlick, loosened tie, and dress-code violating shoes. "I think I'm regretting it already…"

* * *

**Translations:**

**—French**

**sourcils—eyebrows**

**mon cher—my love (generally a term of endearment)**

**angleterre—england**

**amerique—america**

**merde—shit**

**non, il est tres agaçant. je ne sais pas ce qui se passe, mais l'angleterre serait très en colère — no, he's very annoying. i don't know what's happening, but england would be very angry**

**russie—russian**

**—Russian**

**da—yes/right?**

**ждать****—wait**

**—Japanese**

**gomen—sorry**

**I'm sorry for the irregularity of the spelling of 'Pictos' vs. 'Pictoes.' It'll be 'Pictos' from this point on. Yes, I'm fully aware that the correct spelling is 'Pictonians.' The misspelling has a purpose. Trust me.**

**I'll be alternating updating this and my PW:AA story. I think this arrangement will work out. No worries.**

**Please please please. Someone, anybody at else in this world, just give me one single small review. It will be like a ray of sunshine in this world. Please? Someone? Anyone?**

**(echoes)**

**Thanks to the person who faved/followed. I'd glomp you, but I don't have the energy right now. **


	3. Pranks, Pictonians, and Perplexing Plots

So, in a way, you can say that our _real_ story—or at least, what some of you may consider the only valid story—begins on a rather sunny day in the middle of November—inordinately bright and cheery for a day in late fall.

Arthur Kirkland, being a natural cynic, hated it.

He didn't hate puppies and sunshine and he didn't want to kill happiness. He just enjoyed brisk walks in the park during his favorite season of the year, and found it rather annoying when the sunshine burned his admittedly pale skin.

That, and it was currently putting his entire academic career in jeopardy.

Glancing up towards the ceiling of the cafeteria, he leaned slowly toward Francis with a small crease between his eyebrows. "You're sure they can't see it from here? Shadows can be seen through paper when it's really bright…did we do it well? Inconspicuous enough?"

"Not for long," muttered Alfred out of the corner of his mouth, staring fixedly at his hamburger without touching it. "Not if you keep looking up at the ceiling."

"My father always told me not to work with amateurs…never look at the target, is that so difficult for you to understand?!" Rubbing a hand over his face, Ivan turned to glare at Yao and Francis, who were sitting across from each other. "You two dragged me into this—"

"Like you could do any better," the Chinese boy snapped, irritated. "We're getting plenty of stares as it is, sitting together. Speaking of which, _why_ are we sitting together?"

"We'll be seeing each other a lot from now on, so I figured I might get used to seeing your face, bastard commie," laughed Alfred derisively, reaching over to punch Ivan not-too-lightly in the arm.

"Right back at you, American pig," the Russian replied smoothly before leaning over and tapping his foe on the head with his pipe. "And the feeling is mutual between quite a lot of us, so why not start our tension now?"

The five lapsed into silence once again—France critiquing his own food, Russia lost in thought, America tapping on an iPod, China sketching out some sort of design on printer paper, and England trying to nonchalantly pretend there was nothing on the white-washed ceiling as he slowly glanced toward his wrist watch.

* * *

Japan, despite his new place in the Axis Powers pranking group, still had his sixth sense of morality strongly implemented into his system. This is part of the reason why he actively flinched when his salutatorian/valedictorian instinct kicked in and veritably screamed at him that bad, _bad_ things were going to happen to him and the school and everyone in it.

Mei turned to raise an eyebrow at him, smiling rather sadistically. "What is it?"

"Something bad is going to happen," he replied, glancing left and right suspiciously.

"Something bad has already happened," Yong Soo screeched, flapping his arms like some sort of sadistic bird. "_Aniki _is sitting with a group of weirdoes!"

"Weirdo—what?" Turning to eye the lunchroom skeptically, Kiku merely blinked when he caught sight of Yao sitting with the Russian, American, English, and French representatives. "He was beginning to spend more time with that Russian lately anyway, it only makes sense."

"Besides, we all get annoyed with each other regularly," Lien sighed before reaching over to slap Yong Soo's wandering hands away. "Right, Yong Soo?"

"Quiet, I'm trying to get over there to steal _Aniki's_—"

"Yao is a male, he doesn't have breasts." Examining her fingernails, Mei sighed, tactfully pretending she didn't see Yong Soo begin creeping toward Yao regardless of her warning; Lien took the initiative to corral him using his own lunch tray and her arms. "Kiku, where were you yesterday night? You usually don't sleep over with friends on school nights; usually it's just us— your family—or not at all."

"Do you even _have _any friends other than us?"

"I'll have you know I was with them yesterday," Kiku said softly as he glared at the half-distracted Lien. "I stayed over with Ludwig and Feliciano."

"And what did you talk about? School?" Yong Soo dove across the table to give a 'small pat' to Kiku's shoulder. "Aw, you're such a boring person! Well, aside from your video games, but still!"

"I didn't even answer yet!" Despite his generally calm demeanor, a muscle twitched under Kiku's eye. "And we didn't talk about schoolwork!"

"Then what was it?"

Japan could hardly tell his family that he and his friend and stayed up ridiculously late plotting the downfall of pranksters via pranking, so instead settled for a sip of tea and a smile. "We discussed current affairs and…in a way, you could say 'future plans.' It's a good preparation for when we represent our countries in the World Meetings."

"What?! That counts as boring and school-related for sure!" Leaning over, Yong Soo launched a well-aimed attack at Japan's chest as a poor substitute for China's; Kiku leaned out of the way, unfortunately drawing a snicker from his other companions as he hit his head in the process. "Have you ever considered not thinking?"

"Considering it would mean thinking more in and of itself; it's an oxymoron. But to answer your question, yes, I believe I have."

Yong Soo snickered, finally leaning back and salvaging what was left of his lunch from the upturned tray Lien bashed onto his head. "Stop the presses! Alert the police! Kiku has stopped using his brain!"

Lien and Mei laughed, Mei covering her mouth with a sleeve pulled long from years of tugging and Lien throwing her hands up melodramatically into the air. "The sky is falling!"

And then the sky started falling.

To be fair, it had nothing to do with Lien; to be brutally honest, everyone at the unofficially proclaimed 'Asian Group' blamed the Vietnamese girl as they simultaneously dove underneath the hardwood table.

"The sky is _actually_ falling!"

"Lien, what have you done?!"

"It's not me! I don't have this sort of power!" Lien scowled. "I don't know what gave you the _idea_ I had that sort of power!" She paused. "Around you people, I _wish_ I had this sort of power!"

"I don't even know what's going on—will someone figure out what's going on?!"

"I vote Kiku!"

"I agree! Japanese aggression!"

"No, make _Aniki_ do it!"

"Your precious _Aniki_ isn't here, Yong Soo!"

"Okay, then make Kiku do it!"

Three pairs of hands simultaneously grabbed Kiku by various limbs and shoved him out from under the table. Without the protection of the wood above his head, Kiku winced, turning back around to give a somewhat angry retort that somehow managed to turn into a rather undignified yelp.

"What the—_is this_—I don't—_marbles?!_"

The resounding clinking sounds, mixed with the occasional yelp and the buzz of frantic and amused conversation, rang regularly in Kiku's ears in time to small shocks of pain as multicolored marbles fell from the ceiling. A few shattered here and there on the floor while others formed steadily more deadly projectiles hitting the last unprotected person—namely Kiku. As he winced, clawing his way back under the table, the same three pairs of hands that had so rudely pushed him out of his shelter pulled him back in.

"What was it?"

"I think I found it," grinned Mei as she rumpled Kiku's hair. Somehow, two or three glass globes had gotten stuck in the Japanese boy's thin hair; they fell into her palm as the others crowded around it.

"These marbles...hey…"

"They all have the same pattern!"

Kiku unsuccessfully tried to nab one from his cousin; when the barrier of relatives refused to relent, he instead reached out from under the table and grabbed one from the floor around the shelter. Wincing as another marble struck his hand, he pulled it in and frowned at the cursive 'A' in the iridescent center.

"A…?"

"_Attention, everyone!_"

A robotically synthesized voice emitted from a small, laptop-shaped device sitting on a table (how had it not been damaged by a thousand round pieces of falling glass?!) near the center of the lunch room at the exact same time the marbles stopped falling; as people retreated from their places under the lunch tables and hiding in corners, the crowd around the laptop grew. Cramming closer, Kiku left his family and managed to squeeze his place to the front as he shared a cautionary glance with Ludwig and Feliciano…well, with Ludwig. Feliciano was mourning loss of food.

"_I SAID ATTENTION!_"

The group grew quiet, including the crowd of teachers now peering over the student's heads, staring at the purple screen with undulating neon green voice waves.

"_Now that I finally have everyone's __**attention**__…_"

There was an undefinable murmur in the background, and a sort of angry sound—"_what was that?!_"

Another mumble. A cough. "_Oh, right…sorry…PICTONIANS!_"

The group jumped as the voice turned abrupt.

"_Pictonians, I know you're out there, so listen to this—we are the Allied Powers!_"

Kiku's eyes widened, turning to meet Ludwig's in alarm as they began to realize what might be going on.

"_You've damaged our personal pride, and we want payback!_"

Another person butted in, slightly different in the accent neutralizer and voice scrambler. "_Hell yeah! You've messed with the wrong people!_"

"_So, this is a challenge!_" The original speaker cut back in, sounding significantly annoyed, with a couple of thumps and rustles that could only be the signature sound of a person pushing someone else out of the way.

"_Pictonians, you clearly believe you're the best pranksters—and people—in existence; so much so, in fact, that you've dared to prank __**us.**__ We're here to prove you wrong. And get revenge, of course._"

Ludwig, at this point, tugged on Kiku's sleeve, hooking an arm around Co-Principal Romulus Vargas with a wide-eyed glance. When his co-conspirator finally caught his eye, Ludwig practically dragged the smaller Asian boy over to better whisper in his ear—"We have to do something!"

"Yes, but what?!"

"If we make the announcement after they do, we'll look like we're copying them!" Ludwig's eyes were wide and confused—quite an unusual look on him. "If we're doing this, we're doing this _now._"

"_So what are we proposing? A prank war._"

"They _do_ have the same idea as us!" Kiku turned, flicking Ludwig's arm. "We can't change our plan now, and we can't announce it later than them, or it'll look like we stole their idea!"

"Well, they've already _started_ announcing it, so what are we supposed to do?!"

"Tch!" Giving an angry sound and a ferocious glare, Kiku whipped around and forced his way out of the crowd, striding further and further from the lunchroom. Even then, he could hear the audio echoing easily down the smooth, almost untouched halls. "The only thing we have left now is to announce it at the same time, or not announce it at all."

"_A prankwar is a face-off between opposing teams to see who can outprank the other._"

Running down another two hallways and making some turns, Kiku panted as he sprinted toward the central office at an preposterous pace for someone of his athletic ability—that is to say none. Wrenching his vice president of student council key from his pocket, he jammed it into the lock and twisted.

"_We, a group of five students who will simply address ourselves as the 'Allies,' believe that we could beat the Pictonians in one of these said competitions._"

Kiku left the key in the lock, bolting through the door, passing past Sadik Adnan (who was gleefully watching the lunchroom with a school security camera) and Heracles Karpusi (who was sleeping in front of the PA station). Pushing Heracles out of the way and waking him up, Kiku ignored Sadik's outraged 'hey!' and dragged the microphone closer to himself.

"_We'll solidify the details of the prankwar in the coming days. Except another announcement—and another prank._"

Jamming his finger into the button, static feedback pulsed and cleared. Kiku opened his mouth.

"_If you'd like to say anything, questions, comments, complaints—email to 'allies' at our school's email server, and we'll get there!_" There was a pause—this was a new boisterous voice talking excitedly. "_...And don't bother trying to track the IP addresses, teachers. We've taken care of that._"

"STOP!"

Turning backwards towards Sadik's camera, Kiku saw all the students (and the laptop) pause and turn toward the speaker on the ceiling—the speaker from which his voice, tinny and undefinable from the poor quality of the system—as the word scratched into their ears.

"I—ah—that is to say, we—We the Axis propose a prank war too!"

* * *

"So let me get this straight."

Five pairs of feet rested lazily on the mahogany tabletop of the meeting room, one twitching rhythmically and another whisking off with ferocity as England sat up, leaning forward and pounding a fist on the table.

"We're fighting a _three-way_ prankwar?!"

"It would appear so, yes."

"Well, judging by the fact that we have three teams, it looks like it," America responded dully, exaggeratedly counting on his fingers before turning to give England a dry look. "What was your first clue?"

"Excellent deduction, _monsieur Sherlock,_" Francis added in wryly, leaning over to high five the American with a grin as they looked toward the fuming Brit.

"I think you're missing the point," he replied crisply, glaring almost pleadingly at Yao. "Three teams change the entire game."

"We'll need to scrap our current pranking format, and revise the judging system," Ivan mumbled happily. "Also, we don't know anything about the 'Axis,' so we don't know how good—"

"—or bad—" Yao added hopefully.

"—they are."

"Well, it can't be that many changes," Alfred added with a sigh. "Really, the inclusion of the other group just provides an extra challenge. We can still get this done and win the prank war."

"So, the same voting system?"

"Well, the sheet here says it's divisible by three…but I think it's unlikely to end in a tie, so it should be fine."

"Three anonymous groups, one prankwar…" Yao sighed. "_我的天啊。_This cannot turn out well."

* * *

For the next days, everyone walked on metaphorical eggshells; however, no lit bomb dropped onto Hetare High. Even the Pictonians, who were notorious for pranking regularly even before the event of the prankwar, didn't do a single thing. It was like the entire school—and therefore the students' entire world and the little bubble it resided in—was holding its breath waiting for the Allies' next move.

Except for five people, who were two days after their announcement and short impromptu meeting arrived in the same meeting room just in time to scream simultaneously at 1:11 PM.

"TWO HUNDERED SIXTY SEVEN EMAILS?!"

"If you shout like that every time we meet, your throat is going to die," Ivan commented flippantly to Arthur, choosing to ignore the fact that he himself had let out a much more incoherent scream seconds earlier.

"We don't even have two hundred sixty seven people _in the school._" Yao glanced sideways at his counterparts. "Um…we each take fifty for now?"

"_Each take fifty—dear god in heaven—_" Collapsing heavily in his chair, England pulled his laptop toward himself, quickly splitting the mail into five separate folders.

For a while, there was the sporadic clicking and typing, the occasional outburst or exaggerated sigh, a full email being read out loud here and there when it was particularly ludicrous.

"Listen to this, it's Gilbert's—awesome this, awesome that…I think it says he wants in on our plan?"

"No. _Hell _no."

"Principal Roma. 'If you don't stop now, you're going to be expelled when I find you!'"

"…Like we didn't already know that," England sighed; however, he was biting his lip nervously.

"Here's Feliciano's. Something about pasta, pasta, don't hurt the pasta." There was a pause as everyone looked up and Alfred shrugged. "What? Must be paranoia from the Pictonian prank involving the pasta."

"Hey."

Looking up at Ivan's stern face, Alfred raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"The Pictonians." Click, click, tap tap click. "And the Axis."

"Lucky you," Francis commented drolly, standing up as the others too assembled behind him. "You get both in one go."

"You stole my folder, you wanker!" Scowling, England glared up at Francis, slamming his laptop shut. "You were checking the emails in my folder!"

"Can I help it? I saw Antonio and Gilbert at the top, and could not resist…"

"What did the other two groups say?"

Clicking on the label titled 'axis-at-aphhigh' the five crowded together, five pairs of eyes blinked curiously at the email.

'_Dear Allies,_

_We would like to apologize for 'stealing the limelight' from you. It was an unfortunate necessity, and was carried out rather spur of the moment; admittedly, the fact that you almost beat us to a declaration was quite worrying. We're thankful it all worked out.'_

"All worked out?! We had to improvise, and Arthur decides to just randomly give them the okay-go!"

"Like you'd do any better, hamburger idiot!" Scowling, he glared. "What was I supposed to do, refuse them?! They're anonymous; it's not like we can stop them."

"Can we get back to reading now?"

'_As a latecomer to the party, we've all decided to go with the proposition you brought up over your speaker and follow whatever guidelines you set down._

_Sincerely, the Axis.'_

"So, what did the Pictonians say?"

There was a pause, someone tapping a foot impatiently as Ivan took his time pulling up the link.

"_Tread carefully if you try challenging us; we'd hate to see people get hurt._"

There was a pause, a staring 'p-at-aphhigh.'

"Are you sure it's them?"

"It has to be; who else would it be?!"

"This is so confusing!" England groaned, hands gripping his head. "Does this mean they're willing to go along with our terms or not?"

"Just reading it, it doesn't look like they _oppose_ it…"

"Does this mean we're going ahead with the original plan?" Blinking, Francis got four nods in return.

"Well, now that we've got the answers we need, I guess we have to keep checking the emails," Ivan sighed, scrolling further down his page. Arthur leaned over to his own laptop, pulling it over and flicking it back to life with a swipe of the mouse pad. There were a few weak clicks and a series of other varying computer sounds before the Brit abruptly paused, stiffening in shock before shakily jerking his head toward the now eating American.

"…Why are all fifty of the emails in this folder from a self-proclaimed 'hero1776' entitled, and I quote, 'SPAMSPAMSPAMSPAMSPAMSPAMSPAMSPAMSPAM?'"

Freezing halfway through a languid chewing motion, the boy gave a messy and rather meaty smile. "I was bored?"

There was a pause before two other people lunged across the table for their laptops and the third began clicking furiously, all searching wildly for aforementioned 'hero1776' while the man himself went back to his burger and the wronged English gentleman slumped forward and let his forehead hit the table.

More than one person in that room lamented the insanity around them that afternoon.

* * *

It was perhaps for the best that no one in the school had yet put their guard down when the second declaration occurred, because everyone was as a result disappointed by the anticlimactic nature of the announcement.

"No explosions?" Gilbert crossed his arms angrily as people crowded around the laptop-like structure. "That's lame!"

"And not particularly 'awesome,' as it were?" Straightening his suit, Roderich pushed his way between aforementioned albino and Elizaveta before the screen switched to life, same dark background and fluctuating sound wave.

"_So, you'll all be pleased to know that, after clearing through __**too many**__ emails, we've received confirmation from the Pictonians and the newly-announced Axis that they're willing to follow whatever rules we lay out._"

"_So, we've decided the prankwar will extend to an undetermined date; we'll figure it out as a group within a week. The winner will be decided by the students, who will be able to cast their votes in the ballot box._"

Lovino opened his mouth, frowning. "What ballo—"

"_Never you mind, you'll find out later. There will be a scoreboard that will keep track of the points we earn. Whoever has the most points at the determined end of the war will be the winner._"

"What happens at the end?"

"_Penalty time!" _There was positive glee in the voice. _"When one team wins, both other teams must face their penalty. For the Axis and Allies, both must reveal themselves and face the penalty of the teachers and the scorn of their peers. For the Pictonians, they must agree to the condition that they'll acknowledge the winner as their superior and never prank the school again."_

There was a significant pause. The Pictonians had been wreaking havoc and generally causing widespread amusement for three long years; to think of that ever-present insanity no longer being there was, oddly enough, rather depressing.

"_Ah, yes, one more thing."_

The entire crowd subtly shifted closer to the speaker.

"…_Works every time, see?_"

A sudden puff of steam blasted from the air vents into the lunch room, billowing around the student's faces and engulfing the entire area. As people turned wildly, one or two swore they heard a bit of squeaking and a vaguely accented male voice whispering in hushed, furious tones; however, within seconds, it was all over and the only people in the room were clustered together in a group around the mechanical device.

In the corner of the lunchroom opposite to the entrance, a chalkboard and a large metal box had materialized during the brief insanity. There were three plastic labels lining the top of the board—a golden label 'Allies,' a silver label 'Axis,' and a pure white label 'Pictonians.'

"_Let the games begin, as it were?_"

The screen blacked out without a sound. It took all of ten seconds for everyone in the room to realize that all the lunch trays had been overturned.

* * *

When Kiku attempted to enter the main office, he found his way blocked by two disgruntled Europeans.

"We need to talk."

"What is there to discuss?" Kiku raised a critical eye at both the Turkish and Greek boys, one of whom was standing with authoritative curiosity and the other of whom was slumping slightly in his position with a cat perched on his shoulder.

"Don't…play dumb with us, Kiku," Heracles sighed, glaring lazily. "We saw you. We were right there."

It slowly dawned on the Japanese boy just what the two meant, and Kiku tried to keep his gaze steady as he blinked. "…_何__?_"

"Aw, c'mon, Kiku, don't lie!" Pouncing forward, the Turkish man pulled the boy into a hug, rubbing a fist unceremoniously into Kiku's skull. "Our little salutatorian is the Axis!"

"Part of, Sadik! 'Part of' the Axis!" Kiku winced. "And actually, I've been contesting with Arthur and Yao for valedictorian for a while now—"

"You could have told us about it, Kiku, we could have kept it secret…" Trailing off with a yawn, Heracles offered a soft smile. "As it is now, Sadik is going to want to join you."

"Ah, _gomen, _Sadik, but if you'd please keep it secret?" At Sadik's obvious sigh and pointed glance, Kiku returned the expression with a mild frown of his own. "And I don't think my colleagues will be happy if you join in our plan…"

"But you could really—"

"Please, that is final." With a frown, Kiku strode over to the computers, pushing both boys out of the way. "Now, could you excuse me for a moment?"

"…What are you doing?"

"A little something," Kiku muttered with a smile. Sadik complained loudly that he couldn't hear him, while Heracles simply tilted his head in confusion. "A little something I like to call 'preparation.'"

* * *

"So, what did you think of Kiku's methods?"

Germany glanced upward skeptically halfway through gathering his scattered supplies, raising an eyebrow at Feliciano swung his legs back and forth from his perch atop a nearby desk. It was the end of the day, and everyone else had departed for their dorms. The setting sun filtering through the window cast blinding criss-crosses across any surface that could possibly be misconstrued as reflective, and Feli's hair was no exception.

Sometimes, Ludwig wondered about that one.

"Me? About his sudden announcement?" Plucking his binder between index and forefinger, the stockier boy stood straight and shrugged. "There weren't many other options back then. If he hadn't done what he had, we would be in a much worse position."

"Um, and where's that, Ludwig?"

"With nothing." Flicking a finger toward his friend, the German beckoned with one finger. "Come, Feliciano. Let's go to your dorm; Kiku's meeting us there."

* * *

_Artie wants us to keep a communal log on our progress in this war, so we can plan or something. He's forcing me to type it as punishment today. (Let it be known TO THE WORLD that IVAN STARTED IT.)_

_We brought a large sheet of paper that ran about the length of our lunch room. Being the children of some very wealthy higher-ups gets you weird things surprisingly fast._

_We hung it wall to wall a couple of inches lower than the ceiling and made sure it was perfectly flat and then we put a lot of marbles on it. Custom made with A's. Actually, they're Arthur's childhood toys. Only English children still play marbles, seriously—let alone getting them monogrammed._

_We also got this clam shaped one way radio transmitter thing._

_They used the glue I accidentally made in chemistry that wears off in exactly twelve or so hours. I don't know how I got that specific chemical reaction, but it worked. Arthur timed it, and in the middle of the chaos we ran off and got to the room with our end of the radio transmitter just in time._

_The Pictonians accepted our challenge. The new group also introduced themselves and accepted the challenge, but we think they won't be a threat. I mean, we already have a head start with our first-impression prank._

_Oh, and the magic appearing trick. Three of us were in the crowd— except for Ivan, because no one pays much attention to him when his siblings and 'friends' are in the infirmary, and Arthur, so he could talk to the speaker. They helped push in the blackboard and moving table before joining us at the center. The lunch tray thing was simple; since a lot of the tables are connected by a hinge joint, all Ivan had to do was lift each row of tables and the entire thing would start slanting so the trays would get off balance. Another chemical reaction placed in the right spot in the air vent made the smoke. They need to pay me more for all the chemicals I've had to get my hands on._

_We've set the tone. Francis says we shouldn't do anything until the Axis and Pictonians have time to fight back._

_I'm bored and Kiku's got a video game in my room. Only God knows where we'll go from here._

_THE HERO!_

* * *

**Translations:**

**Chinese—**

**我的天啊—****the Chinese equivalent of 'dear God.' essentially expressing exasperation.**

**Japanese—**

**何—"****Nani?" it means 'what?'**

**This has become a full-time commitment, apparently. Sorry, PW:AA /I'M SORRY, MY OLD OBSESSION. MAYBE IT IS TIME FOR US TO BREAK UP…?**

**Thank you for the nice reviews. Cookies and cupcakes are bestowed upon you. *+1 mana point* Oh, and have a genie lamp with three free wishes granted by karma. X3 *And +3 derpdom to Risseh *and none for Lydia bye**

**Did anyone tell that I kind of died at the end of the chapter? I was rushing because someone kept pressuring me…and pressuring me…and pressuring me…and also homework.**

**If you guess what the 'aph' in the email code/school name stands for, you get an omake of your choice when this madness is over. And no, it's not 'axis powers.'**


	4. Intermission: Our Backdrop

A metallic clicking sound permeated through the stale air of the steel-plated room. One lone person, pounding away at a computer, paused silently and tilted his head towards the door.

"So why are you here?"

Silence. Finally, the new silhouette standing at the door spoke. "I was bored."

"I'm on shift today, and I specifically told you not to bother me when I'm on shift."

There was a loud laugh. "Aw, c'mon. What's the worst I can do?"

"Accidentally press a button on the machine and unleash what we've got planned for next month?"

"Oh, _hahaha—_that was _one time_ and you pushed me because you were annoyed. Also, we've kind of scrapped all of our current plans."

"Scrapped our plans?" The person at the computer tilted his head. "Please. This 'Axis' and 'Allies' thing…they're new to this. How good can they be?"

"Pretty damn good." The boy at the door leaned on the control panel, raising his hands in a 'surrender' motion as the other turned with a ferocious glare. "Okay, hands are off! Anyway, as I was saying, we only joined this group in our freshman year—this freshman year…and I'd say we're much, _much_ better than half the people in the world."

"…Probably more than half." The straight-laced male at the computer allowed himself a small smile. "Yeah, I see your point. But still, we had professionals training us. They're amateurs. There's no way anything has to change."

"…Boss's orders."

There was a sort of tense moment before the boy at the computer abruptly turned around with a raised eyebrow.

"…He doesn't usually talk to us directly."

"He's worried. He knows some of them personally."

"He knows who they are?! They're anonymous, though—"

"No, not for sure. He has his hunch, though, and apparently his hunch says these are gonna be tough nuts to crack."

"Okay…so…" Turning back to his computer monitor, the boy X'ed out the remaining tabs and started a new Word Document. "…What does he want us to do? Something completely new?"

"Um…actually, he wants us to start using the emergency file."

Automatically, the boy tensed, staring straight into the blue hazy lights of the LED computer screen. "…No one ever touches the emergency file."

"I know."

"The boss tells us every other day that under no circumstance can we mess with it."

"I know."

"He formulated those things at the very beginning of his career and keeps editing it every other week."

"I know."

"It was the first thing he ever told us—"

"He wants us to start using them now."

"The emergency plan lasts for an entire year, like the other plans…so what are we doing with this year's plans? Push it to next year?"

"...They're saying that at this rate, if we don't act there won't be a next year."

There was yet another heavy pause before the boy at the computer pushed another series of buttons. The document closed and a series of folders appeared on the screen, blocking out the plain blue background with flashing white and yellow folders labeled 'Emergency'.

"I don't know who 'they' is, but step one to proving them wrong is right here."

* * *

There was a stone-cold, passive aggressive silence leaking heavily in the main office as the two people in it faced opposite directions. Finally, Sadik turned from his position, a complete 180, giving a glare that seemed to radiate friendly but intense competition to the Grecian representative.

"Heracles?"

"…Hm?"

"We're really similar, aren't we?"

"Yes." The answer came immediately, disdainful and begrudgingly accepting, as Heracles too lazily nudged his foot against his spinny chair until he was facing Sadik.

"I mean, we've got the same personality—well, underneath all your laziness—and we're also—"

"—And your ego."

"What?"

"We're the same…underneath my supposed 'laziness'…_and_ your ego."

"Whatever you say, Heracles. Whatever you say. My point is that…how similar are we?"

There was a second where the two glared at each other before Heracles sagged slightly in his chair, closing his eyes lazily and using a bit of momentum to push himself away. "Oh, so _that's_ what this is about…"

"And why not?" Scowling, the Turkish representative lunged forward and grabbed the other's arm rest, violently wrenching him back. Heracles's eyes widened in shock for a second. "We already fight about everything else, why not fight over one boy, too?"

"…Or better yet, you can fall in love with someone else." Heracles sighed in defeat, letting the cat on his shoulder jump into his hands before lowering it to the floor. It disappeared into the jungle of wires behind Heracles's PA system. "What do you want to say?"

"How are we going to decide for it?"

"…If you're too much of a chicken to say it out loud…if we're both in love with Kiku we're not going to reach an agreement." Heracles yawned as Sadik glared through his mask.

"So then what do you propose we do?"

"…If we're both not going to give up…the only thing that can happen…is that we compete for him."

"Compete?" Sadik drummed his fingers on his chin. "Is there nothing else?"

"It's obvious none of us is going to give up…even we come to an agreement…either way, we're going to both fight with everything…and that's a competition."

Sadik gave him a critical glare before lunging forward with a grin, grasping Heracles's hand and attempting to crush it in one hand.

"…Alright, cat boy. You've got yourself a deal!"

* * *

For some unknown reason, the three still sat together at lunch.

Elizaveta glared slightly as Gilbert slammed his tray down in front of her, casting sideways eyes at the boy who blinked blankly beside her. Roderich's eyes didn't betray anything, still behind thick glasses. Picking at wurst he'd picked up from the German section of the cafeteria, the albino finally sat up straight, throwing his eyes from his food to the two in front of him.

Elizaveta met his gaze evenly while Roderich cleared his throat and leaned forward to inspect his schnitzel.

"Well? What do you want?"

Gilbert looked back and forth in between Roderich and Elizaveta, darting from person to person, as if balancing and comparing the two.

"…It is nothing."

Roderich murmured quietly.

"What is it?" Elizaveta whispered quietly back to him, lightly grasping and shaking his hand under the table as if a mother talking to a stubborn child.

Roderich didn't respond, gaze sinking back to the weiner schnitzel. Reaching out his free hand, he poked it and stared as if reading the secrets of the universe.

Gilbert slammed his hand onto the table. "_Ja?_ Spit it out!"

"I said…'it's not nothing.'"

"Oh? And why's that?"

"…We all love each other, then? What next?"

There was a quiet pause. Looking up, the musician with the ahoge pierced the people with him with black eyes—the first show of expression in them for the entire lunchtime.

Standing up angrily, Gilbert grabbed his tray and strode to Ludwig's table. Elizaveta stared at the Austrian representative pityingly for a second more before standing softly, giving him a small kiss on his head, and turning to sit with Liechtenstein and a newly healed Ukraine (who were sitting with each other instead of Switzerland and Belarus in honor of Katyusha's recovery).

Austria grabbed his tray, snatched it off the table, and bounded almost angrily toward a lone, threatening Switzerland.

* * *

**This is a bit shorter because it's intermission. Actual update will be up soon. Summer's here! Even so, just one update a month; I'm hoping to get ahead above all else.**


	5. Fire, Finery, and Falsified Frights

"But Ludwig, I don't want to hurt people…"

"If we don't fight back, we won't win." Sighing toward the Italian, the three members of the Axis shifted slightly in their circle on Kiku's bedroom floor. "So, Kiku, did you do it?"

"The cameras are going to be off for a majority of the night," he nodded firmly, looking rather pleased with himself. "The computers were Japanese model, although the PA system is Estonian so I couldn't change that."

"Do you think it's really wise for us to sneak into school at night?" Ludwig turned back to the laptop in front of him, biting his lip. "There are so many variables and Principal Rome said he was keeping an eye on all of us—"

"Ludwig." Kiku laid a hand on the German's shoulder, visibly relaxing him. "Let it go. There is nothing else to do."

Ludwig took a deep breath before nodding in affirmation. "You're right." He turned to Feliciano. "We'll get it started tonight."

"I made pasta! Who wants some?"

* * *

Feliciano didn't particularly like black. There were so many colors—red, green, yellow, fuschia, violet, periwinkle, tangerine…

And then there was black.

Nevertheless, Feliciano resisted the urge to pick at the cloth or paint it with the acrylic he had in his hand–although really, he was _good_ at art—why didn't Kiku let him paint on his ninja costumes?

"Feliciano…" Kiku hissed warningly as the Italian's hand itched toward the paintbrush. "These are my old Naruto cosplays. I'd appreciate if you didn't stain them."

"But I can draw ninjas too, Kiku! Or those weird symbols on the headbands."

There was a bit of hesitation before Kiku sighed. Feliciano couldn't see his face through the black masks and the cover of night, but it sounded like he was bearing a smile. "…You can paint a Konohagakure symbol onto it after we're done."

The Italian instantly brightened, waving a thick paintbrush around. He detested this type—thick strands of horse hair (or fake plastic, which was really even worse) that were literally impossible to manipulate into a detailed drawing unless it was billboard-size large. Nevertheless, he swirled it in the paint, hypnotized by the layered pattern. "So, what are we doing with these?"

"We're painting in the entrance hall." Ludwig gave a thin lipped smile, glancing up at the motionless camera on top of a pillar as he opened his hand to Kiku without looking at him. The Japanese boy placed a student council key into his palm.

"Really? That's cool!" Pulling out the brush and watching paint fall, thick and slow, into the can, Feliciano turned to the German. "So what are we painting?"

"…Anything."

"What are we painting on?"

"The floor."

"…The floor?" Feliciano's eyes widened and a smile grew on his face.

"Well…and the walls. And maybe the ceiling if we can reach it." The door slid open, and Ludwig allowed himself a rare smile. "And if we have time, we can splatter a bit into the cafeteria."

Feliciano didn't get big canvases very often—despite going to Hetare, his family wasn't particularly rich or high-standing, and the only reason he and his brother had even made it was because their grandfather was the principal. He simply couldn't afford to paint regularly on large, unhindered backdrop.

Feliciano was through the door and kneeling on the floor of the front hall within seconds.

* * *

Kiku limited himself to one of the large brown walls while Feliciano lunged for the floor and Ludwig, unartistic to an extent, relegated himself to simply whipping paint onto the remaining wall.

Feliciano was painting a detailed montage, different flashes of various pictures peeking out at Kiku beneath the small, ecstatically hyperactive body and barrels of paint. Ludwig simply splattered streaks across his wall.

Kiku stared at his canvas viciously.

A single touch. As soon as his brush made contact with that wall, he would officially become a rule breaker. The wrong side of the law. Punishable. He was in the wrong. The dark side.

One touch, and if people knew, he was officially screwed.

His entire future—gone. All his work—wasted. His whole _family_ was going to be hated and in return hate him.

The hand carrying the brush trembled—inching forward, inching backward, before he finally slammed it into the can.

He wasn't going to do it. He wasn't going to go through with it, he wasn't going to prank anymore, he was going to go home and live a normal life—

"_Kiku! We don't have time! Work!_"

With a start, he nodded—"Hai!"—and thoughtlessly stabbed his hand forward.

There was a wet sort of squelching sound as Kiku winced and slowly turned.

Lime green on brown.

He'd crossed the line without thinking.

Kiku sighed—if he'd cross the line, he might as well do it with style.

A dash, a cut with his fingernail, a swipe with the pad of his finger that dyed his skin green, and he had a small anime face adorning the wall. Kiku smiled. Well, who said rule-breaking didn't have to have flair?

* * *

"What are you drawing, Feliciano?"

"What, Ludwig?! You're already done?" Pulling away in surprise, Feliciano looked up blearily. His face was multicolored, and the tips of his fingers were smudged and blended from multiple erasures and smears. "You work fast! What did you draw?"

"I can't draw…" Ludwig glared at nothing in particular, shaking his head in an embarrassed sort of way. "I just put out a bunch of paint."

Feliciano laughed slightly at Ludwig's straight, rigid lines, turning back to the floor he was kneeling on. "I'm painting from the top of the hall down, you know, so my legs don't smudge the stuff I've already painted. It's a bunch of memories, see? There's Romano and Grandpa Roma, there's big brother France—"

"—Your _older cousin_ Francis—"

"—There's that one time I beat Sadik in a fight, and there's you and me and Kiku!"

Ludwig scanned his eyes through the pictures, quite a lot including Romano, Principal Rome, and Ludwig himself. They were quite detailed, more than a bit beautiful, and Ludwig found himself smiling.

"Ah, what's that you're painting, Feliciano-kun?" Kiku also wandered over, green and purple dripping from the side of his hand and paintbrush. Glancing over Feliciano's head, Ludwig spied a detailed scene involving a large block letter A and a crowd of people drawn in a half-cartoonish manner—anime, was it called?

"Ah, that's quite pretty—but won't it let us be recognized?"

"Oh, I didn't think of that." Feliciano sighed, glancing down at what he'd painted. "I guess I'll have to paint over the faces."

"Not necessarily," Kiku muttered, eyes glazing over. Ludwig had seen that expression on Feliciano's face plenty of times—there had to be a word for this artistic condition that muted people to the world. As the Japanese representative continued muttering, grabbing Feliciano's original color and beginning to soften and sharpen certain facial features and roughen out certain hair lines, the two other boys edged slowly away until they were backed against Ludwig's wall.

"I don't know Kiku very well, but he seems very nice," Feliciano whispered quietly, turning up to Ludwig with the customary smile on his face.

Quiet hung between them as Ludwig simply beamed into his friend's smiling face, a rare peaceful moment from Feliciano.

Naturally, it was over soon, Feliciano clapping his hands authoritatively.

"Okay! We've still got some time before we go to the cafeteria and the cameras come back on, Ludwig! I'll help you turn this into a really pretty impressionist painting—you just need to let go and put in some swirls and arcs!" Tracing his fingers over Ludwig's drying paint, the Italian lunged for a bucket and a paintbrush, tracing out artfully messy circles over straight lines as the German watched on.

Staring out at the two other members of the Axis, he let out a smile as he glanced toward the opposite wall—Kiku's wall.

Straight, sturdy A, big and bold, juxtaposed in the center of a crowd of smiling, confident faces.

In the end, that was what it meant to be the Axis.

* * *

The Allies saw the prank first.

To be more exact, the five entered the school early, bent on a planning session in the school's meeting room, at the exact same time.

"WHAT IN THE SIXTEEN REALMS OF FUCKING HELL?!"

"Actually, there are nine."

"…What?!"

"There are nine realms of hell," corrected Alfred, turning and poking an at this point infuriated Arthur in the forehead.

"And the _Angleterre's_ been to every one of them," Francis sighed, blinking at the multicolored neon walls with disdain.

"This part of this painting has a certain resemblance to you, Francis," Ivan said as he strode forward, tapping the floor with his pipe and peering closer curiously.

"This looks stylistically familiar," Yao murmured slowly, striding near the wall that was emblazoned with an A painted with a rather particular shade of magenta. "I've seen this type of drawing. I can't put my finger on it…" He leaned forward and prodded the face of one of the drawn people with his finger.

"An A." Arthur growled.

"The Axis…"

* * *

Principal Germania's reaction was much more…explosive.

Co-Principal Roma saw the prank coming and braced himself for the bad news, so summons to his other co-leader's office wasn't that big of a surprise. What surprised him was the path _to_ the office.

Which just so happened to look like a mural for a large impressionist painting.

Knocking on Germania's office door, he was greeted by a gloved fist flying straight for his own wrist and a shout of "ROMA!" screamed loud enough so that every person in the main office raised their head and looked up. Apologetically, Roma barely had time to duck his head before the door was slammed (his head narrowly avoiding being slammed with it) and he was looking at a glowering Germania.

"Well, when you said we wanted to showcase the art department, this wasn't quite what I thought you meant." The brunette laughed loudly, beaming in return to his counterpart's angry frown.

"_You_ were the one who insisted we display the art department because of your precious grandchildren—"

"—You wanted a city-wide march to display _your_ grandchild's new formation—"

"—and you know fully well that this was no authority figure's doing." Tactfully ignoring the interjection, the more serious of the two tapped a foot on the floor. "This whole 'Axis,' 'Allies,' 'Pictonians' thing…this needs to stop."

"We've been saying that about the Pictonians alone for five years," Roma replied, pulling a hard candy from the bowl atop the desk. Neatly unwrapping it, he tossed it into the air and caught it in his mouth—a trick he'd spent hours perfecting trying to entertain his twin baby grandchildren years ago. "We have a whole drawer full of info on them and we haven't seen hide nor hair. What makes you think we can catch all three?"

"More crackdowns, a better security system—the cameras were shut down at their source during the day and had no footage last night," Germania replied stubbornly, pacing back and forth. "You don't seem to understand, Roma. There are kids out there—apparently now more children than ever—who are wasting their lives away playing some foolish game of _pride._" Abrupt stop. Roma backed away from the piercing ice-blue gaze that was suddenly directly in front of him. "They need to stop. They need to find themselves."

Roma and Germania had been childhood friends. They'd grown up together, lived together, and been together through so much that they could practically think like each other.

"…But Germania, isn't exactly what they're doing?"

* * *

The paintings didn't last for long. Well, to be more exact, they didn't exactly stay noticed for long, because by the end of the day there was a more readily available answer for the colors slathering the hallways.

An answer that quite abruptly made itself known in the middle of second period, when the fire alarm went off.

Ludwig, who had been in World Languages with Feliciano, had perplexedly grabbed his bare necessities and retreated into the hallway alongside the Italian boy, meeting up with Kiku just as the Asian emerged from his propaganda class. The three exchanged confused glances, before the flow of traffic suddenly stopped, encasing the representatives with it. Standing up on his toes, Ludwig squinted.

The doors to the outside were locked.

By this point in time, the two co-principals were angrily striding towards the doors, assuring the flabbergasted (and occasionally hysterical) students around them that while no, this was not a drill, it was not an actual fire either (as far as they knew, and they knew a lot)—that yes, the doors were locked and no, they didn't know why and no, they couldn't unlock them because someone had stolen the keys.

And instantly, Ludwig knew—it was a prank.

And a good one, too. They just couldn't win, could they?

As if in answer, the alarms blared once more as the emergency sprinklers blared on from the ceiling, drenching everyone in kool-aid.

* * *

Francis was very, _very_ tempted to make like a girl and clutch at his hair.

Not that he wasn't the very image of masculinity, of course (you can just ignore the ramblings of bitter Englishmen)—however, he happened to care a bit about his appearance, and generally appearance is not approved when suddenly caught in a spontaneous shower of sugar drinks.

Fortunately, he wasn't the only one—Poland had at this point resorted to stripping Lithuania of his jacket and holding it above his head, while the poor Lithuanian simply shivered in the downpour of cold flavored water that was now assaulting every member of the school and staining the walls and floor into bleached streaks of yellow and green (beneath the paint already there). Glancing around, Francis saw Arthur desperately trying to simultaneously regain order and find a suitable way to unleash his anger; Alfred opening his mouth to catch the drops falling from the ceiling; Ivan incessantly bashing one particular sprinkler with his pipe; Yao calmly opening a small umbrella over his head and wringing out his ponytail from beneath its shelter.

And then the pour abruptly stopped. Francis was about to turn to lament about the state of his favorite blue cloak with his two best friends when the chattering suddenly stopped and the crowd parted like the red sea before a figure that certainly looked angry and stormy enough to be Moses.

Germania marched to the center of the crowd, glaring at each and every person. Francis shivered—the co-principal had that strange ability to make every single person feel like he or she was being put on the spot regardless of what the authority figure actually thought.

Sometimes Francis wondered if he had become principal on that particular trait alone.

His gaze lingering slightly at his albino son's cheeky grin, the co-principal stopped in the dead center of the crowd, getting full glare radius and powering up a good Medusa-style gaze…

And then, out of the sprinkler right atop him, down dropped a gooey white mass of liquid.

The man didn't do anything at first, standing stoic and still as the slime dripped from the top if his head, from his squared shoulders, from his hands. Then, he slowly lifted it up to his eyes.

"White slime," he growled under his breath, so low that only people in the front row like Francis could hear. He looked back up.

"…_PICTONIANS!_"

* * *

"A nice plan, wouldn't you say?"

"Don't get all excited now. You didn't make it, so you can drop that tone of voice."

"But we carried it out—"

"We just pushed a button. All the plans in the emergency file have been prepared and set up for the past couple of years."

"…Really? Man, what was the boss preparing for?"

"This, obviously." The boy at the control panel flicked two switches. "Now pass me the key, would you?

* * *

The North American brothers were studying for the economics test.

Well, to be fair, one of them was. The other was lounging on the couch, playing his DSi one handed while chewing on a Big Mac.

Turning around in the spinny chair he was comfortably seated in, Matthew glared at his brother, taking in the languid motion of his foot swinging back and forth.

"You could at least bother to study, you know!"

"Chillax, bro," sighed the American, turning the screen slightly to face his brother. "I'm earning money in the game. Doesn't that count as studying?"

"No, it doesn't." Matthew sighed. "The least you can do is try a bit _before_ you get kicked out of school."

"This again?!" Alfred flipped over on the couch, slapping the video game console onto the little table near his chair. "Look, Mattie, just because you don't want to prank the school doesn't mean you have to constantly try and make me feel horrible about it."

"Look, all I'm saying is that the pranking is risky enough as it is, so you might as well try in school—not that you shouldn't do that anyway!"

"I pass everything—have for the past three years." Matthew gave him a sarcastic glare, and Alfred returned it with one of his own. "Okay, maybe I didn't pass _high_, but I passed. Y'know, if I pay attention in class, then I don't have to study!"

"Alfred!" Matthew gave a piercing glare, the effect somewhat downplayed by the quiet tone of his voice. "We're the future representatives of our entire country—couldn't you at least put some _effort_ into it?"

"Couldn't you learn to relax a little?" Alfred stretched out again, adjusting himself. "You're already good at economics, why study?"

"Well…" Matthew turned away, and Alfred peered closer.

"Dude…you're _blushing._" A slow, sadistic grin spread on the American's face—the kind that read 'you'll be my bitch for a while now.' "You've got a crush in that class, don't you?!"

"WH—WHAT?!" Matthew bent over, coughing and wheezing, as Alfred shot him a triumphant look. It faded quickly when he realized his twin was laughing.

"W—what? You mean I'm not right?"

"Dear _God_, Alfred, have I ever liked anyone…y'know, like that…in all my years of existence?" He shook his head. "Honestly, I don't really think I have it in me to feel that strongly for someone—at least not for a very, _very_ long time"

"Well…then why were you blushing?" Alfred frowned.

"…I'm kind of failing the class."

"How are you failing economics? You're good at everything!"

"Hey, don't blame me! It's just that there's been a lot of assignments in the other class, so I was kind of ignoring economics—no, shut up!" He snapped at his brother, whacking the wheezing 'hero' over the head with a rolled up worksheet. "Hey, I bet you've got worse than a C-plus!"

"…You cal failing grade?" America grinned, ducking away from the moving paper and grabbing for his video game. "That's the average, isn't it?"

"...I will never understand why you're still in this school."

* * *

The Baltics were doing—or _trying_ to do—chemistry homework.

"Why are we doing this?" Sighing in a soft voice, Toris Laurinaitis placed his pencil onto the worksheet, glancing over at his distant cousin/forced friend. "Raivis, have you got the experiment done?"

"I'm trying," said the Latvian in an even quieter voice, gritting his teeth as he flitted over the kitchen stove that was in the process of heating some sort of clear liquid. "The acid burned my fingers, so can you hang on a bit?"

"It has to be taken off at exactly three minutes, Raivis," commented Eduard idly, looking up from his own programming homework to glance at the worksheet next to him. "You'll have to do it in exactly two seconds. The mixture's very unstable."

"I don't even _want_ to be a chemistry major!" Raivis hissed as he burned himself yet again on the side of the metal pot, twisting the knob and turning the stove off.

"Neither do I, Raivis, neither do I." The Lithuanian strode over, turning to examine the bubbling pattern of the liquid as Raivis placed the pot into the sink and added two drops from a dropper. "But Ivan's going to be here soon. You know what his family will do to ours if we don't do this properly."

"He can't use one failed chemistry paper to make his dad go after ours, can he?"

"He can if he doesn't graduate from Hetare High." Eduard turned around, pushing his glasses up his nose and neatly packing up his completed paper. "His dad's been counting on him to become the representative for years now. Since the police began cracking down on the Russian underworld, the fate of the mafia hangs in Ivan's hands."

"You mean in ours," sighed Toris, checking off a couple of boxes on the paper. "I mean, since we're doing everything _for_ him…"

"Well, we don't really have a choice, do we?"

"I don't know." Raivis bit his lip. "We're representatives, too. If we combined our influence and stood up to him—"

The thought was left to be completed at a later date as the door flew open. Eduard quickly bolted to his friends' side, pretending to fuss over cleaning up the various chemicals on the island.

The temperature fell drastically as Ivan walked in.

"I am back!" Grinning cheerfully, he leaned over to examine the homework. "Excellent work, Toris, Raivis, Eduard." He nodded at each, patting Toris's head slightly. "If it's about done, you should be good for today."

"Th—thanks, Mr. Braginski," sighed Raivis, noticeably subdued in the presence of the large Russian.

"I'm your friend, aren't I?" He laughed—it wasn't at all happy. "Call me Ivan."

"Okay. Goodbye, Ivan." Eduard grabbed his bag, Raivis packed up the chemicals, and Toris dusted the last remains of dark rye bread from the table in a matter of minutes. After three years, it had become a routine to pack and escape from the room as quickly as possible.

The three of them were out the door already before Ivan called out—"Toris, could you come in here for a second?"

The three froze. The Lithuanian looked desperately at his compatriots, all of whom waved him into the room with sympathetic looks on their faces. Gulping in a lungful of air and wondering why he suddenly felt like a prisoner on death row, the Lithuanian walked inside and closed the door.

"Toris." With a nod, Ivan pointed to the chair across from him at his kitchen table. "Have a seat."

He sat accordingly, eyes flickering towards Ivan's face only occasionally. He kept his gaze firmly trained on the edge of the table.

"…Look at me, Toris." The Russian tilted his head and smiled. "Am I really that unlikable?"

Not trusting the words that came out of his mouth, the boy simply shook his head viciously, looking up slowly and nodding when he met Ivan's purple gaze.

"There we go," he replied, reaching forward to touch Lithuania's hair again. "I like your hair, it's very soft."

"Um…thank you?" The Lithuanian, confused, turned his face away slightly. Ivan frowned, waiting, and no further reply came.

"…That's all. You can go now."

Lithuania barely restrained himself from asking 'that's it?' instead nodding his thanks as he jumped up and bolted out the door.

Ivan frowned after him, purple eyes intensifying slightly.

* * *

"Are you coming, Feliciano? You're done with your pasta, so it's time to get to class."

"You've got a different class than me next period, don't you, Ludwig? You have statistics and I have cooking." The Italian looked up, standing and grabbing his tray before waving at a scowling Lovino.

"Yes, but your locker's on the way to statistics, and you need to put your binders from this morning away. I'll walk you to your locker, deal?"

"Sure!" Leaping over to the trash can, Feliciano slammed his tray in, ignoring Ludwig's sharp yell on how it was plastic and therefore reusable. Bouncing back, there was a hesitation so slight that everyone—and I do mean everyone—would have missed it before the Italian grabbed the German's hand and pulled him bodily out of the room, utilizing mostly the element of surprise.

Naturally, Ludwig's protests fell on generally deaf ears.

* * *

"How are—"

"I don't—"

"What do we—"

"Shut up, will you?! We've got to think rationally?"

Despite his words, Arthur Kirkland was clearly nowhere near rational, pacing at the head of the conference room table as the four others screamed incoherently (mainly to vent out their rage).

The scene we happen upon at the moment is undoubtedly the first of many similar ones between this ragtag group of five—general mayhem. America glared, France pulled at his hair, England paced in neverending circles, China screamed in rapid Mandarin and Russia laughed quietly while his scarf coiled tightly around everything in reach.

"Look, there's no way we can one up the Pictonian prank, it's simple as that!" France pounded a hand on the table. "I say we just slink out of the competition and not do a prank—with luck, the Axis and Pictonians will distract the attention. This was a horrible idea in the first place—we could be thrown out!"

"Rich words, considering the school bans people of different genders in the same dorm room after 10:00," snickered England; France simply smirked and replied.

"Who said it was people of different genders?"

Ignoring the exchange between the long-time frenemies, Alfred slammed a fist onto the table; Ivan's scarf twitched toward it. "Dude, you sound like Mattie—'let's stop this before we get annihilated by the others, or even worse, expelled.' The Hero never gives up! Who says we can't one up them?"

"It was a pretty good idea, though," sighed Yao remorsefully, calmly rummaging into his panda bag and pulling out a Rubiks cube. His hands swept calmly as he solved it with a practiced air. "It's not _impossible_ to come up with a better idea, but seeing as we are novices, it may take a while."

"Define 'a while.'"

"An idea good enough to equal theirs? Maybe two or three weeks." Ivan scoffed. "Defeat does not come easy, when the person was winning the fight before you even entered. If you want to one up them, we will have to rack our brains for a month—or months." Leaning over the table, the Russian tapped on America's head; the boy pulled away with a murderous glare. "Or, in the case of our dull little hamburger hero here, several years."

"Hey!" America jumped up again, this time lunging across the table before racing around the bend so he could face the Russian eye to eye. "I'll have you know that Americans got the nuclear bomb _miles_ ahead of Russia!"

"But that is a group of Americans." Still grinning, unperturbed, Ivan slammed a palm into Alfred's skull; there was a dull crack. "Whereas the one standing in front of me has the intelligence of a particularly clever rock."

"Oh, so that's the game you wanna play, huh?" Eyes narrowing even further, America's fists clenched. The Russian's aura seemed to expand, his presence filling the whole room as his eyes gleamed in anticipation.

And then—

"Your mama's so stupid, the stupidity wraps around and now she's a genius!"

"YOU FUCKING FUCK!" Roaring angrily, the Englishman was around the table in four quick steps and proceeded to crack the American across the skull with the closest thing that fit in his hands—which ironically happened to be the American's own biology textbook. "What kind of a confrontation is this?!"

Throwing his hands in the air and storming off in a classic 'ragequit,' England's scowl deepened even further as the room exploded into chaos, France and China joining the fray as Russia smiled even more and retorted.

"I never knew my mother, мудак—"

"NI MEN ZAI FA SHEN ME YANG ZI DE SHEN JING BING—"

"Je ne sais pas _pourquoi_ je vous parle avec—"

"Motherfucking hell!" Slamming both hands on the table as loudly as he possibly could, England again managed to capture the attention of the entire room, eyebrows now so close to vertical that they met in the middle in a small (large) knot. "If you people are going to yell at each other, at least do it in a language I understand! Especially you!" Still glaring, he pointed an incriminating finger at Francis. "Do you have any idea how many things you've said to me—I don't want to think about how many of those are perverted advances—that becomes useless to me because I don't understand what you're saying?"

There was a moment of silence for a second as the five stared from one to another. Suddenly, Francis, Alfred, and Arthur all began smiling; Ivan tilted his head quizzically and Yao sighed.

"What is it?"

"Don't you see, guys?" Yanking up his computer and furiously opening a notepad, America began typing furiously while the others followed. Arthur leaned over one shoulder and Francis leaned over the other. "The next prank we can do."

"It's definitely not groundbreaking, but it'll tide off the other teams for enough time to let us think of our next one." Nodding determinedly, the English representative tapped on the screen.

"The perfect deception," Francis breathed, by now leaving both Yao and Ivan thoroughly confused and partially angry.

"_What_ is the perfect deception?"

"Ah, I get it now, too," smiled Ivan, to which Yao turned with his arms folded and a frown on his face. Just as he was about to comment on how he still didn't know it—moreover, how he was the _last_ to know, Ivan nodded.

"It is simple, моего друга. So many things are lost in translation."

* * *

**The first person to correctly identify the HP reference will get to choose anything they want to appear in the next intermission, as long as it flows in-universe.**

**Again, read and drop a line! Tell me how much you loved it, hated it, etcetera—just plain tell me! :D**

**NOTES:**

**1) I won't be doing translations from now on unless people start requesting it, because it takes a lot of time with the gratuitous phrases I throw in. If people want it, though, I'll start it up.**

**2) Due to the sudden workload I've achieved, the update next month may or may not be late. If it is, rest assured I'll get it up before September.**


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